


And Might Had Fallen to Sands and Fire

by matan4il



Series: And Might Had Fallen to Sands and Fire [1]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Big Bang Challenge, Emmerdale Big Bang, Emmerdale Big Bang Round 2, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gladiators, Historical, Kinda, M/M, roman soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matan4il/pseuds/matan4il
Summary: Aaron is a Hebrew gladiator whose daily routine of training and fighting is changed by the arrival of a unit of Roman soldiers.Basically, a Robron AU set in the world of gladiators.Written for Emmerdale Big Bang's second round.(sorry, I suck at summaries)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic was born** out of a conversation with the ever lovely [Ivett](http://isabellaofparma.tumblr.com/) about the show Spartacus, which we both love, plus how fit Aaron was in that one Emmerdale episode wearing a Roman soldier costume. She commented on how much she would have wanted a Spartacus AU where Aaron was a gladiator, I was smiling at the idea of a Roman gladiator with such a Hebrew name, then I remembered... Holy shit, there actually **was** one historical event that resulted in lots of Jews in gladiatorial schools! Wouldn't that be fun to explore?
> 
> Because the character's name determined Aaron's origin, I figured I'd do the same with most characters in this fic, with some minor exceptions. I also added some notes at the end of each chapter. Some are clarifications for the story, most are tidbits from my historical research for this fic in case you're a fellow geek and enjoy that kind of a thing. I don't think those are necessary to follow the story, so you can feel free to skip them if you prefer to. 
> 
> I've used some **Latin terms** in this fic in the way Tolstoy discussed - like adding different types of brush strokes to a painting. They'll always be _italicized_. But you still need the English equivalent, right? So whenever a term in Latin shows up for the first time, you'll be able to hover over it with your mouse and see the translation. Also, at the end of each chapter you'll find a short list of all the terms introduced in that chapter, translated. Lastly, the final chapter is an alphabetical list of all the Latin terms used throughout the fic with their meanings. 
> 
> I tried to keep most details within the realm of the historically plausible, but please do take into account that I don't claim to be an expert on this period of time and also that I sometimes deliberately used my poetic license. Thank you, I hope you enjoy the fic and as always, all feedback and constructive criticism is welcome! 
> 
> My biggest thanks to two people who've made this fic so much better. First, my unbelievable beta, [Jo](http://sugglesmiles.tumblr.com/). She was a real star, with endless patience for me and lots of helpful suggestions. I couldn't have asked for a better beta! <3 Second, the phenomenal artist I was lucky to be paired with, [Tara](http://starsdah-b.tumblr.com/), whose fanart for the fic is linked to as the second part of the series, here on AO3, and which is probably the best thing about this story. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart for making this, my first Big Bang entry ever, ten thousand times better and more fun! xox

In a world of ashes, the sands of the arena were always golden. Aaron never had a problem finding his place there, his rage marking the path for him, his feet sure and his course true. And by the time he could stop to breathe, to survey the results of his actions, those sands had been soaked in blood. Yet underneath the scarlet hues, he could still see the gold and the promise embodied in its twinkle.

The Judean _gladiator_ was by no means a favorite of the audiences. His Hebrew roots made it apparent to them that he was of a lower breed, even in a crowd of once proud warriors and freemen who were now relegated to the humiliating station of entertainment. "Just one god?" A Namibian gladiator once questioned him dubiously. "It is heresy to all other gods that you do not recognize them. No fighting on the seventh day of each week?" He continued, seemingly more to himself than to the Jewish gladiator, "What madness is this?" 

At least the Namibian was open enough to voice his suspicious attitude. The rest simply kept their distance and sneered at Aaron from afar. "Your people must be very lazy indeed. Very materialistic. You will not last long," the Namibian gladiator prophesied and put an end to the conversation by walking away. 

It was just as well. Aaron's survival in the arena was not exactly due to a patient and peaceful nature, yet his temper leading to a fight with the Namibian would not have served him at all. Popularity among the 'brotherhood' did count, after all. Thus, there was no reason to purposelessly deepen the resentment many of them already held towards him. To them, the Hebrew - the heathen who believed in no more than one deity - remained an outsider even as they begrudgingly brandished the flesh of his arm with the mark of the gladiatorial brotherhood. He was not one of their own still. And everyone knew, if you were unpopular among the other gladiators, to stay alive, you had no other choice. You had to have been forged in fire. Aaron was. His fire matched the golden, cursed sands and each time he stepped in, for as long as he fought, he could set aside everything it took. 

"You fight well," a _doctor_ once said to him, "but you fight for yourself with no thought of the audience. You will not win their hearts this way". It sounded convincing, but Aaron knew it was pretty standard advice which was given to all newcomers and tended to impress many of the newly arrived gladiators-in-training. He has been around long enough and had paid close enough attention to have heard it before. He figured out it was offered to them as a tool. Those convinced would then change their style of fighting a little. Whether the change did help them in the arena was debatable, but they would feel that they had progressed and evolved. It would keep them motivated to learn more until their style unequivocally did improve. Or until they died, whichever fate greeted them first. Aaron, unlike them, could not take the chance. He had to live. He didn't wait for anyone's advice to make him constantly train harder and he never accepted the idea that his goal must be to keep the crowds entertained. It was true, some few gladiators managed to trade great popularity for their freedom. But that was not a goal he shared with them and for now, remaining alive was all that mattered. He had to be efficient and had no obligations to anything more. 

Aaron wipes the sweat from his brows, refusing to acknowledge the full weight of the wooden training sword, purposefully heavier in their hands than the _gladius_ they would be given for the battle. It was a wise training decision, albeit not a comfortable one. If the day was hot and the sun was mercilessly beating on their heads, if the lunch that was being served was as poor an excuse for a meal as ever, Aaron doesn't pay too much mind to that. No, as he puts the wooden tool aside and takes his place in the line of men awaiting their turn to receive their food portion, he notices a distinct unquiet. Something that appears to be of great consequence had happened. 

"Bashed, brother. Cadavers are said to have their heads bashed completely in," says one Roman gladiator to the man standing right beside him. He was a petty criminal before his _ludus_ days, though as his current status would seem to indicate, not a very successful one. Aaron did not know his real name, but as he was needlessly vicious in the arena, cruel not for victory but for the sight of blood, most referred to him by his nickname The Red in a vernacular form of his Latin mother tongue. Il Rosso. 

"Exaggerations. Three legion soldiers killed by one man? Their bodies in a state as such? Stories, meant to frighten little children and men wanting artificial quickening of their hearts for the leisure of their lives provides them with none". This opinion is offered by a _doctor retiariorum_ passing the two fighters by, an old Greek man who should have been retired by the _lanista_ long ago. The man was known to be prone to drink and Aaron suspected he was kept on as an honorary _doctor_ to maintain some level of sobriety in him. This did not seem to sit right with the man, who would more gladly promise the men the certainty of Hell and Damnation than that a life without alcohol might be a good one. Alexander was his name and absolutely no one called him by either that or his title. Most settled for one diminutive or another and for as long as they were willing to share their wine with him, it seemed not like the old man minded. 

A sudden quiet takes hold and spreads behind them, jolting Aaron to quickly glance in that direction. A unit of _legionari_ is stepping in, all in formation, through the gate the gladiators were not allowed to freely exit. The gold-tinted metal in their armor reflects the stabbing glare of the sun and they stop not too far from the line of hungry men. Their commander steps forward and, taking off his Roman helmet and distractedly adjusting his _focale_ , all can sense a pair of icy blue eyes assessing them from underneath the fair strands of his hair. "Where is the _lanista_?" he asks in a tone that conveyed no particular urgency, yet stressed authority. 

"Forgiveness, commander, the master is not amongst us today," replies the Greek _doctor retiariorum_. The commander adds nothing, only keeps on looking at the old man intently. The latter finds himself quick to expand, "Travel has called him forth and expectation is for his return the day after next." 

"Very well," the unit's commander says, without seeming to miss a single beat, "we shall set camp here until his return. Requirement from you is only for the feeding of my men. If there is any need that arises for me, you may ask for Commander Tiberius." Having given his orders, he turns away from the old man, unceremoniously dismissing him. 

"Only," Il Rosso repeats that part of the commander's directive, practically hissing, and yet he keeps his volume lowered to no more than a whisper to himself and those close by. What it was that displeased him so much is not quite clear to Aaron, but common-sense dictates that indeed, nothing good could ever come from the presence of a whole unit of _legionari_ stationed in a _ludus_. His eyes follow the receding back of the commander as the man goes on to oversee his men's preparing of their accommodations for the next several days. 

After the food is finished, the gladiators resume training, odd as it may be to do so under the watchful eye of the soldiers, who by now have settled and had nothing else to do. Aaron likes this not. Certainty has grown within him that the conversation he has heard at meal time is connected with the presence of the _legionari_. His mood is dark and that makes training particularly effective for him on this day. 

The evening fall brings with it an orgy, yet another one. A means to placate and control the fighters of the _ludus_ , no pretense about it. Undoubtedly, the dark-haired daughter of the house master has learned to use these means to keep all men in these small, closed quarters appeased until her father returns. The determined set of her jaw was always a sign to Aaron that in a slightly different world, she would have been the one running the _ludus_ and not her aging parent. the gladiator's guess would be that the place would have been more prosperous, yet that the men fighting for it would have struggled with their treatment far more. Even with her limited power over their lives, most knew to try and keep out of the path of her displeasure. 

Aaron's eyes move across the bodies writhing all around him. He doesn't join in. The expected "Judea boy, is your circumcised sword unable to find its way to a fucking sheath?" gets tossed at him, but as usual, the men lose interest in him quickly once enough wine and enough women have been offered up. Aaron understands their participation in this measure taken to ensure the enslavement of their spirit in addition to that of their bodies. They want to lose themselves in the mindlessness of pleasure. He would too, but for as long as he can still hold a sword in his hand, then Aaron mustn't forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gladiator - fighter, literally: swordsman  
> Doctor - trainer  
> Gladius - sword  
> Ludus - gladiatorial training school  
> Doctor retiariorum - trainer of net fighters  
> Lanista - owner of gladiators  
> Legionari - legionaries, Roman infantry soldiers  
> Focale - scarf worn under the metal armor to protect the neck from it
> 
> * The sword finding its sheath may sound weird, but the Romans did have terms for penis and vagina that literally translated to sword and sheath. 
> 
> * In relation to the Namibian gladiator, I wanted to point out that the Namibian people were named after the Namib desert, which they considered to be the first desert known to Man and that's just bloody cool. 
> 
> * You could probably tell that Ross' name (whose real origin is from Gaelic) didn't dictate his origin as with most other characters in this fic. I needed him to be a Roman, so his name has been turned in the fic into a nickname and I made up a little explanation for it based on 'il rosso' meaning 'the red' in Italian, which is (together with Sardinian) the closest language to Vulgar (commonly spoken) Latin that we have today. In Classical Latin, 'red' would be 'rubrum' (and yes, that is where the word 'ruby' for the gem comes from). Because this will not stand up to any historic scrutiny, I'm asking for your gracious understanding... 
> 
> * Just in case there's any doubt, the old Greek trainer is Sandy. That name is actually a diminutive form of the Greek name Alexandros, which means 'defender of men' (nowadays, we are more used to the Latinized version of the name, Alexander).


	2. Chapter 2

The sands of the arena were always golden, but they were cruel enough even so. Aaron's gaze takes in the crowds cheering, the men fighting, the blood that was spilt, the bodies already sliced - the ones still moving alongside the ones that do so no longer - and the dull thump of it all threatens for a second to overwhelm him with nausea. He represses it through sheer force of will and reminds himself to prepare. He is featured in the next round of parallel bouts.

"This is quite impressive," as Aaron was standing at the back of the group of fighters by the side of the arena, he's able to pick up behind them the voice of the army commander. The man's tone conveys that he is speaking to someone slightly more important than the lowly gladiators, who are huddled together like dumb animals next to the gates, awaiting their turn before the crowd. Even without knowing the official reason for the commander's presence there, this is cause for worry. There should be nothing for the soldiers at this site, yet here they are. This commanding officer, Tiberius as he had previously indicated, is inspecting them far too closely for Aaron's liking. "My eyes, _doctor_ , they only see one on one battles. Is not your _ludus_ also blessed with fighters who are capable of fighting off more than one opponent at a time?" 

"Any self-respecting _ludus_ would have to be," replies Frank, the _doctor_ who came from the wild territories of Gaul and had been known for his prowess on the battlefield as well as for his sleight of hand. The latter, everyone came to know, allowed him many times to simply trick his opponents rather than overpower them, drawing their attention away from the blow which would land them defeat. For his remarkable abilities, he was put in charge of all fighters and other instructors, whereas the other trainers under him were responsible for no more than one specialized form of fighting. "And ours is as respectable as they come." 

"Is there possibility to see these talented fighters of yours manifest their skills?" Aaron is getting an idea now of what it is the Roman commander must be looking for. He waits anxiously for the response from Frank, but just then, the gates before them open with fanfare and the gladiators are called upon to step out. To face their fellow warriors, the beasts in the arena, to the roars of the beasts in the crowd. First it's irritation Aaron feels over being left in the dark as to the ending of the conversation he overheard, but then he resigns himself to the noise surrounding and drowning him. He must refocus quickly if he's to return victorious. He therefore has to push out any remaining wondering from his mind regarding whether he would have an opportunity later on to discover what was said. Preparing for what's in store is more crucial and the louder the waves of shouts, the easier it becomes to shift his attention. Aaron tests his _manica_ one last time to make sure it's secure and moves forward. Through the gates he goes, only momentarily fazed by stepping into the excess of blinding light. 

The arena feels almost like home by this point, certainly more so than the pitiful quarters the gladiators are given in their Roman master's house. He quietly greets it in his heart with a few words from a foreign land, asking for all he dares to implore of an unseen, higher force. To survive another day. 

In this fight in particular, that should prove to be a reasonable request, as he is meant to face off in a relatively uneventful affair. The city is holding a _munus_ and Aaron is slated to fight in a rather mundane _spectaculum_ , not a full on extravaganza of gore. Yet one never knows. It's vital he does not get too confident. This is how some gladiators perish, assuming they are safe simply because they fight in a show not intended to end with a lethal blow. Certain of this, they grow complacent, allowing a strike to land where it was not meant to and a bout that was designed to end with defeat and dishonour, is instead concluded with death while the _lanista_ curses them for the unintended, wasteful loss of his precious investment. This will not happen to Aaron. As the couples meant to fight align all around him, he turns to take his position and face the man he must defeat. The sword in his hand already moves easily through the empty air, singing, looking for its target, waiting to launch itself at it as soon as permission would be given. The referee in the arena gives them the sign and Aaron's sword flies. 

It doesn't take him long to achieve a clear victory, Aaron's dark aggression assisted by his opponent's evident lack of skill. He must not have been in training for long before this day and it would stand to reason that the man was probably a captive from a recent battle. Once Aaron's exited the arena, he doesn't dwell on this too long, looking instead for a cloth he could wipe the blood staining his sword on. There is a maze of rooms for the fighters and animals used in the shows and the one he's in, designated this day for his round's winners, is quite empty of men. As Aaron was the first victor from among these fighters to return, he welcomes the quiet solitude this should afford him for a few minutes more. 

"Would this be that which you are seeking?" A voice comes from right behind Aaron, just as a piece of white cloth comes into his field of vision. There's no mistaking the voice that the Hebrew gladiator listened to earlier so attentively. 

"Gratitude," Aaron says with as much decorum as he can muster in speaking to this man and he turns slightly to take the cloth from him while the _legionari_ 's commander continues to stand to his side. Aaron knows when he's being appraised. He ignores it and uses the fabric on the blade. Pushes down the usual sense of oddness he feels at how easily human blood can be made to vanish. 

"That was quite a performance you put on in the arena," the commander continues. 

"Admirer, are we?" Aaron asks and regrets it immediately. It would be wiser, after all, if he could rein himself in when facing a danger. Damage done, he figures, and at the very least, he shouldn't let on now a single moment of inner turmoil. Weakness would serve him even worse than insolence. 

Commander Tiberius simply chuckles at his words and comes to fully stand before Aaron, not even trying to conceal the way his eyes are evaluating the Hebrew gladiator's form from bottom to top. "We might be. We haven't seen enough yet to say with absolute assuredness." His voice is filled with amusement, yet as he comes to address Aaron directly to his face, he stops so suddenly, it's as if he has been forced to. His voice hints that his line of speech has been cut short by honest befuddlement as his next utterance is spoken with a lot less confidence. "Your eyes," he says, " _hyacinthum_." His wonder may come across too much for his own liking, since a moment of silence follows and only then does the commander continue, and he is back to a more reserved tone. "I did not know Judeans had eyes of fair color." 

"Are there many things you are aware of, regarding the people of Judea?" Aaron asks. As soon as he does, he takes in the commander's observation and it occurs to him that the question he asked was the wrong one. Quick as is possible, he adds, "Who has spoken to you of where I come from?" 

The commander smiles, glaringly so very pleased that it fires up flames of anger in the pit of Aaron's stomach. "You inspire much interest, it would appear. Your Gaul _doctor_ has mentioned your origin. He said you were very efficient in your fighting, quite admirable he even said, despite a lack of willingness to play to the crowds. An effective style is what he mentioned, one he believes most likely owed to your experience as a rebel during the Jewish Revolt." He sounds expectant and certain at the same time, as if he had posed a question and was now just waiting for the affirmative response there was no doubt must follow. 

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "If he made those remarks about my efficiency, was it admiration on his part? Or was it complaint?" 

Aaron could curse himself for his inability to put a stop to his evident insolence, but Commander Tiberius' smile only widens. "You ask many a question." 

"Another of my people's qualities, as you've surely heard." Aaron's internal warnings to his own self are not working. He simply can't help but to respond defiantly. Which in turn serves to further raise his irritation with the Roman and worsens his rebellious streak. 

"Surely." The Commander pauses tensely, as if he is about to say something more, before thinking better of it. Instead, he moves one step back, then stops in order to take Aaron in again. "I look forward to seeing your next match." He turns around and leaves. 

Their exchange has eaten away the few minutes before the next fight was decided. Soon after, with more and more fighters finishing their bouts and entering the same space Commander Tiberius had just left, the room is becoming noisier and more crowded by the minute. Yet for Aaron, he still clearly hears what the Roman commander said, the Roman's unexpressed insinuation reverberating in the Hebrew's mind. 

* ~ *

At the end of this _spectaculum_ , Il Rosso returns last, boastful as ever of his gory achievements in the arena. The men receive him with the usual mixture of cheers and sycophancy from those who seek the Roman gladiator's alliance with the careful, measured reactions from those gladiators who put no faith in the Latin man's character, but know better than to get into an altercation with him. Aaron tries to remain among the latter, attempting to keep his distance, but in this too, the day proves to be of no fortune for him. In spite of his meticulously crafted aloofness and detachment, Il Rosso walks almost straight away to him, looking to get a rise out of him. 

"Judea boy, first to leave the sands? If cowardly running away is the most desirable course of action for you, I would suggest to the _doctor_ you be trained as a _retiarius tunicatus_... as he must have planned to train you all along." Aaron is aware of what this is. An attempt to drag him into a confrontation using childish taunts. Back home, when he used to advise a younger mind on a matter such as this, he used to suggest as a smart response a deliberate invoking of laughter, followed by walking away. But to do so here would mean to be disgraced in the eyes of the _familia gladiatorium_ , which would not do. Nor can Aaron deny Il Rosso makes him itch to fight, unwise as that may be. 

They most likely don't stare at each other for that long, though it feels like it. Il Rosso is trying to shake his opponent up, unnerve him. 

"Would I ever dream of stealing away your area of expertise," ends up being Aaron's retort. As soon as the words are spoken, the man they targeted reddens terribly, his eyes bulging out, his body launching forward. Aaron is not prepared for how pleased he feels by the reaction he managed to elicit. 

As swiftly as Il Rosso tried coming for him, several other warriors are quick to stand in his way and hold him back. "Just you wait," he shouts as he continues in his attempts to get as close as he can to the Hebrew fighter, who is not backing down either, despite also being held at bay by other men, "I will have you hanged from your foreskin-less dick!" 

A part of Aaron knows he should turn away, while another feels, with some or in spite of logic, that he mustn't. The latter part wins out. Trying to step closer despite the men holding him, Aaron almost closes whatever small distance is forcibly maintained between the two of them by their fellow gladiators and spits, "At least I have one!" 

That's it. That is all it takes to make Il Rosso snap. He struggles more furiously to get away from the men attempting to restrain him and his shouts come sound as if they break out of his very core as they are incomprehensible growls. He would kill Aaron at this point, if he got the chance. So the Hebrew does what would be most maddening of all for the Roman, he lets a trace of a smile peak out from the corner of his lips. His ultimate declaration of disdain. 

It all amounts to nothing, though. Their fellow fighters are kin enough to hold the two back and away from each other. After all, they are but property and can be punished for allowing their master's assets to be damaged in a pointless brawl, if the free Romans so choose. 

Their _doctores_ come in, someone must have called for them, and soon this will be over and they will be unceremoniously reminded of their rank, of their bodies not even being theirs to endanger or maim through mindless violence. They'll be taken away, punished and this will all look as if it's over. The _doctores_ will certainly expect it to be. Aaron keeps his gaze intent on Il Rosso, who's also glaring right back at the Israelite. What's interesting to Aaron is to try and discern what thing made the Latin man feel so threatened that he had to look for this confrontation in the first place. Be that whatever it may, Aaron knows that this isn't done, and it's the biggest, most genuine smile that breaks out of his very depths at that moment, more honest than any expression that has adorned his face for quite a while, a teeth baring smile of sincerest joy. 

Aaron and Il Rosso are not just forced away from each other, all of the fighters are then ordered to start marching back to their respective _ludus_. Their stepping out of line has lost everyone their right to rest after the afternoon fight and this is the true punishment for Aaron and his opponent. The resentment of the other gladiators who must now go back to training. 

Frank has hardly ever said more than two words to Aaron directly. With the Hebrew not being one of the more prized gladiators, the Gaul oversaw his training as almost every other fighter under Frank's care was seen to - indirectly for the most part, through the other instructors. This allowed the chief among them to keep himself as uninvolved, distant and detached from the fighters as was possible. It should then serve as a shock when the _doctor_ comes up to Aaron's side on their way back from the arena to the gladiatorial quarters at the _ludus_. 

"It is not clear to me how, but it would appear that you have caught the eye of Commander Tiberius," Frank remarks and Aaron's sole response is to grit his teeth to himself and keep his eyes trained on the heels of the gladiator marching in front of him. "If you do anything to dishonor this house..." The Gaul's tone holds no hint of a threat, only factual implication. "The way you do battle now will not do. We will see to your fighting style come morn".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manica - arm guard  
> Munus - three or more days of gladiatorial fights  
> Spectaculum - one gladiatorial show  
> Hyacinthum - blue  
> Retiarius tunicatus - net fighter using a battle style considered effeminate  
> Familia gladiatorium - a troop of gladiators living and training under the same lanista  
> Doctores - trainers
> 
> * The retiarii fought using nets and tridents and were the least physically protected, thus they were the only gladiators allowed to retreat during an arena battle. As such, they were sometimes seen as a symbol of cowardice among the fighters. Some of them combined this permission with a style of fighting that was considered effeminate. Those gladiators had to be even further distinguished from the rest of the retiarii and that is why they were made to wear a tunica, earning them the nickname 'retiarius tunicatus'. Between the supposed cowardice and the effeminate fighting style and tunica, this title would have also been equal to calling someone a 'sissy' or even 'fag' today. 
> 
> * The gladiators usually didn't fight to the point of death, but rather to that of defeat and dishonor. It cost a lot of money to train a gladiator and it wouldn't have been very profitable for every single battle to be finished with an execution. 
> 
> * Frank is actually a name that refers to being a member of the Franks. They were a Germanic tribe and it's from them that the country of France gets its name. However, I didn't think that 'Frank the Frank' works well, so I changed it up a bit by making Frank belong to the Gauls. They were a Celtic people who spread over vast West European territories, but are largely known as being the main ancestors of the modern French people. Since the French also count, though to a much lesser degree, the Franks among their ancestors, it means there was some mingling of these two groups, small as it might have been. That made me feel like maybe Frank is a product of that mingling, a Gaul bearing a Frank name.


	3. Chapter 3

But Aaron was forged in fire. Frank can speak, demand and promise, yet at the end of it all, human sounds get drowned out by fire and Aaron has to be able to go back into that arena, one with himself and those golden sands. He will. He squares his shoulders, tightens his grip on his _gladius_ and lets everything else roll off of him.

Frank steps up to him again, cutting off his training round. "Indeed, just like that," he speaks as enthusiastically as a _doctor_ can allow himself to and Aaron knows the Gaul trainer thinks he has discovered some form of a diamond in the rough. Frank has been using every rhetorical trick _doctores_ made use of to guide Aaron into using more polished maneuvers and into putting more show behind them. The Hebrew gladiator keeps his face completely placid as he repeats the movements in nearly perfect imitation of his instructor's on the very first try. Frank is beside himself, though disguising it as best he can by calling for further repetition and further yet. They had been at it since before dawn had properly broken out, the trainer evidently looking to make the most use of this day. 

All of it is rather dull for Aaron, who knows the truth. This obedience is entirely mechanical and its only purpose as far as he is concerned is to garner him the time he needs to decide on a course of action. Every flash of red cloth in a Roman _legionarius_ ' outfit is a reminder. 

"Good," Frank stops his Israelite gladiator once more after the latter's sword has been thrust into the air with precision, in the middle of the current battle sequence he is performing. The Gaul is enthusiastic. Aaron takes it in and makes up his mind. They continue to exercise showmanship for a few more hours and this time around, the Judean fighter puts his everything into the training for real. 

"You know that late in the afternoon, you will be featured in a _spectaculum_. It's going to be a two on one show. You have participated in such a battle before, have you not?" Frank's question is meant to be a technicality, he wants to start explaining something, but Aaron shakes his head to indicate he had not. The Gaul's face plainly reflects his surprise and subsequent hesitation. He must truly be taken aback by this response. Even if he is entertaining the possibility that his gladiator might be lying, he has to take into account that it could very well be an honest answer. And Aaron confidently guesses that for the first time since the Hebrew was brought to the _ludus_ \- to be arena fodder against far more favored gladiators - that Frank minds whether or not the man in front of him will live to see another day. 

The Gaul is prompt about changing Aaron's training, they focus on fending off attacks coming from two different directions. He's not enthusiastic anymore. 

"If I had realized..." Aaron catches Frank muttering to himself at a certain point. But the _doctor_ hadn't and now there isn't enough time to do anything substantial about it. He switches things up again and the last rounds of training that they get to hold before they must leave for the arena are ones that Frank dedicates to showing Aaron how to surrender with dignity and silently plea for the crowd's mercy. "Show them you fought with valour. Make sure they understand you're willing to accept whatever fate they decide to deal out to you. Being prepared to receive death at their hands is what makes you worthier of a sentence of life" is the lesson Frank does his best to instill in him. 

* ~ *

Horns being blown was the noise that greeted the fighters as they entered the arena and it is a strange sound to die to. Far too festive for Aaron's liking. Officially it calls the gladiators out to fight, marks their entry into the ring, but its true purpose is to further heat up the crowd's boiling blood. It incites them to shout out, with more volume and fervor, whether encouragement or displeasure, creating along with the horns the last sounds that some men will ever hear. This will not be Aaron's fate. He is as determined about this as any slave gets to be. 

His two opponents for this bout take their place. He measures them up. Their build is bigger than his. That's good for a smaller fighter. Bigger men tend to believe too much in their physical strength. They move a little slower. They're not as guarded as they ought to be. Depending on how experienced they are, this may play to his advantage. But if they are veterans of the arena, well... In that case, they have learned and won't make such mistakes. 

The signal is given, they start going in circles. If he wants the crowd's favor, Aaron will have to strike first. Show initiative. Prove his bloodlust. Play to the crowd's imaginations of what they see themselves having done if they were at the center of the ring. 

Aaron lands the first blow on the man to his left after making it seem as if he was trying to hit the one to his right, and by the swiftness and strength that it's blocked with, he knows his opponents are not inexperienced. This will not last long and he will have to do his best with whatever little time is afforded him. 

He's not wrong. Within less than what he estimates to be twenty minutes, though it feels longer, he finds himself - for the first time since fighting in a gladiatorial bout - fallen on the ground. Closer to the arena sands than he'd ever been. He can hear their whispers. Their tales of blood shed in service of satiating hungry crowds of spectators. His neck, bloodied from both his wounds and the ones he managed to inflict on the other fighters before he had to succumb, is under the tip of a sword. He stretches it and his limbs out in the gesture that Frank has taught him the crowd will understand as 'I am willing to die, but still hope you will let me live'. His ragged, exerted breathing minutely shrinks the gap between his vulnerable flesh and the unfeeling metal tip, then widens it up only to next close it again. It feels stranger than he thought it would when he had prepared himself for this, offering his neck for the slicing. 

The crowd's chant in response probably starts quickly enough, but it seems like a short eternity to Aaron. His life dependant on the decision of so many strangers. They likely would never agree on any fighter's fate, thus the question is which part of the audience will be bigger, which will drown out the shouts of the other part. The noise of the public comes in before Aaron can make out what it is that most of them are screaming. Some accompany their shouts with a gesture, but the _munerarius_ rarely takes that into account. He would never be able to survey all those hands and deduce the crowd's final vote from that. The sword at Aaron's neck is lowered. Mercy has been granted. 

Aaron can't stop his head from falling in silent relief. Normally in this position, he would drop his head back, but this time he does so forward, feeling the need to protect the flesh he had just a brief second ago exposed to another man's sword. It takes him a moment more before he rises to his feet. The crowd cheers and not for him. He's about to start making his way to the _spoliarium_ behind the arena exit gates when he catches sight of the Roman commander. The man is standing as close to the sandy ring as any spectator can get and it's his facial expression that throws Aaron off. It's one of awe. 

* ~ *

They're back to training at the gladiators quarters the next morning, because that is the course chosen for fighters who have such little say in their own lives. The master's house, the arena and back again. It's a pendulum swinging between two points with no change possible, no third or fourth options. The orgies that were held there last night are to distract the victors from this, offer incentive to those who had to forfeit, kindle their desire to do better in the next round, but Aaron is grateful to have been spared the drunken celebrations for once. He watched the Roman soldiers' dwellings instead. 

"You have done as well as you could have in the arena yesterday, but we must improve on your skills. It's the first time you have lost in a _spectaculum_ , is it not? We'll try and make sure it is the last as well." Frank is hovering over him, but that's not the true test to what happened the day before. Aaron keeps up his training silently, expecting the Roman commander to show up sooner or later. 

He does. When the sun is midway through the sky and its rays fall blindingly bright on the man's _cuirass_ , he strides up to Frank and they speak for a short while. Then the commander picks up one of the training swords and takes a position opposite Aaron. 

"Indeed," he says, smiling, "your _doctor_ is kind enough to let my curiosity get the better of me and allow me to try my strength in a round with you". 

In lieu of an answer, Aaron takes the opening stance, shoulders pulled up slightly, body hunched forward a little, hands up with the sword in the right one at the angle needed to prepare for the blocking of any rival strike, feet moving in a circle around the other fighter and eyes honing in on said opponent in search of the first opening that would allow a strike. 

"I must tell you how impressed I was with your performance yesterday," Commander Tiberius continues as he is circling Aaron back, looking for a similar opportunity. 

"I lost," Aaron retorts drily. 

"Uh, yes. Tell me, what is your opinion on the matter of purposely lost bouts? I'm of the belief that it takes more skill to make others believe you have lost fairly even though you could have won, while also making them feel convinced that you have held nothing back. Does that not sound as a case of great skill to you? I wonder, however, why would one do that." 

Aaron's eyes narrow. "That would spell death. No gladiator would." 

"No, they would not," the commander agrees, his foot work already proving swifter than Aaron would have anticipated, "unless they relied on a performance so convincing and strong that they were sure it would win the crowd over and spare their lives". And with that, he moves forward and strikes at Aaron from the side. 

Aaron blocks it instinctively. The next sequence of blows that's passed between their wooden swords is exchanged with little conscious thought on Aaron's side, his body reacting without thought while his mind faced up to what he already suspected the day before. The commander may not be fighting him in the arena, the sword he's wielding right now may not be made of metal, it may not be pointed at his throat, but this man poses the greatest danger Aaron has been in yet. 

It takes Aaron a minute or two to refocus, to take the reins back from his physical training and allow himself to make a conscious decision. His body wants not only to defend itself, but strike a few devastating blows and make sure his opponent never tries attacking him again. His gut says he should pretend to lose the battle, as he did yesterday, to throw the commander off the scent the man had evidently picked up. Commander Tiberius, unlike some other Roman commanders, has not let his own training go and he can clearly go on for quite a while longer. That makes it harder not only to defeat, but also fool him. The Hebrew fighter looks for weaknesses in the commander's fighting style while he tries to decide what he should do. No immediate ones he can detect. Winning this bout will not serve him anyway, but as it turns out, faking a loss wouldn't either. The only solution he can think of, then, is to lose honestly. 

Aaron repeats Frank's showmanship lessons, he puts too much effort into the same maneuvers he would have chosen to attempt the defeat of this man. He looks to exert himself while trying to win the fight, trusting his opponent to use his growing fatigue against him. It's going to take a while. Hit, get blocked, retreat, come back again from the other side. Make the reaching arc of his thrust a bit bigger than it needs to be in order to be efficient. Aaron's lost count of how many times wood has hit wood between them and there's a beat to it, a certain rhythm. It's almost like they're dancing. He tries a trick from below. Not a definitive strike, but one to the hilt of the training sword, meant to loosen the hold the commander has on it. Aaron makes the swing of it start just a little lower than he usually would. Not by much, not enough so that the Roman would notice what he's unnecessarily adding. Commander Tiberius must notice it in time, however, as Aaron finds his opponent's _gladius_ was moved down to meet and block him. Then, both still with their hands down, their bodies arched and insanely close, the Roman continues the same movement and changes his angle a little, just enough to let him thrust the wooden tip forward at Aaron. With the Hebrew gladiator's hands still too low to be able to block this, they know in the arena this would have slashed through his guts. No opportunity for the crowd to weigh in and make up their minds about the loser's fate. It decides the battle. 

There it is. And Aaron is not faking being stunned. He gave his rival a little leeway with that extra bit of motion he put in at the start of his assault, but he didn't see the commander's counter-move coming and did not anticipate being defeated just yet. He was honestly beaten and this must have been reflected in his face, in his body language. Surely this had to convince the Roman that Aaron was not the fighter he was looking for. 

Frank is next to them almost instantly, thanking the Roman commander for granting them the honor of facing one of their fighters and asking what he makes of their Hebrew. Aaron's eyes are cast down, a slave in the presence of free men. A man wary of what he might hear. Praying for signs of disappointment. 

"Well," Aaron hears Frank's expectant voice, "what did you think?" 

The answer comes almost like a held breath that had to be released. 

"Remarkable".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legionarius - legionary, Roman infantry soldier  
> Munerarius - giver of a gladiatorial exhibition  
> Spoliarium - room reserved for the defeated  
> Cuirass - the breastplate and backplate of a Roman soldier's armor
> 
> * The Munerarius was usually someone from the nobility holding the gladiatorial games, thus earning him the position of acting as judge. They would normally go with the crowd's wishes on a defeated gladiator's fate, but could decide against it. Originally, gladiatorial games were thrown when a relative or another important person had passed away, that the Munerarius wished to honor. As the games grew more popular, they could be thrown for whichever reason. 
> 
> * The spoliarium was accessed through the arena exit doors, which were always found opposite the arena entrance gates.


	4. Chapter 4

The flickers of flame are red and gold, sparks slicing the dark velvet of the night. It's a stark sky and with the thick clouds that are covering it, one cannot see the moon that might have helped to guide lost souls about. There were no games held that day. The arena the fighters were all too familiar with was standing empty, haunted by the ghosts of shouts from gladiators and crowds alike. Or so Aaron thought it must have been when he had the time to ponder that at all.

As the day was dedicated to training and nothing but, the gladiators have turned to sleep at the end of it with no celebrations whatsoever. One bonfire or another was usually lit in the _ludus_ courtyard with the dying of dusk, whether for the fighters or for the guards. Staring into the one burning away on this night gets Aaron to do what he doesn't often subscribe to, look back. 

The day started out for the fighters as they all do, with the gladiators called out of their beds and out of their dreams for a roll call. The _lanista_ must be given his report that no one is missing. It's a tedious bit of routine. During the entire time Aaron had been there, not once were the numbers off. No slaves have ever attempted escape. It wasn't so just because some of the men brought here liked the life of a gladiator well enough, especially the ones of poorer status, for it offered corporal compensation they would have never otherwise stood to gain. It was that even if one managed to scale the walls of the _ludus_ and escape, there was nowhere to go. Remaining in town meant the certainty of eventual capture and punishment by one's owner and his men. Punishment meant, at best, bodily torture. It was also possible to get caught and brought to what the Romans considered justice by some of the other free town folk. It had been about two hundred years since a great slave revolt shook Roman society, along with undermining Rome's complete faith in its invincibility. They had won eventually, the slaves were defeated, punished and made an example of. Crucified in the thousands along the empire's main road, for all to see. For the captured to remember. Thus following the revolt, slaves were not liberated and Romans did not change their ways. Yet the battle lasted long enough that the latter were left careful with those they kept under their thumb. they were cautious to such an extent, that all Romans tended to see any escaping slave as their own personal matter to resolve. 

Trying to get beyond the town borders wasn't simple either, as this one was surrounded by thick forests. Predatory beasts lurked in them, as well as the possibility of getting lost and never coming out of these woodlands again. The best option one would have to get through them and to the next settlement was to steal a horse, but even that might still be in vain. A horse does not aid a person if that rider doesn't know where it is they are riding to, nor how far the distance to their destination. Worse yet, a stolen horse would mean that two items of property have been stolen from a Roman owner instead of one and would only motivate that man, his servants and the people of the town to be joined in this hunt for the fleeing gladiator by soldiers as well. 

It was mad then, to even consider escape. Mad and futile, so no one did. 

Yet there they were, starting each day with the roll call. Fifteen minutes of precious sleep denied them. A constant reminder that their choices were not theirs. Il Rosso was particularly displeased by this loss that morning. His aggravation at anything was so apparent, Aaron tried to stay clear of him. It mattered not to Il Rosso. He was looking to pick a fight and there was no way he would skip Aaron. "Hey, Jew boy!" His sneer was even uglier than his words. "Since you can't show the gods the respect and worship they deserve, I've decided you can make up for it by serving us. You can start by polishing my _tegimen_. And do it in the manner that befits your lowly people," he leaned in at this, "with your tongue." 

Thinking back on it, Aaron knows he shouldn't have let Il Rosso get to him with that but the thought of the common Roman thief using derogatory language targeting his people, believing he was above them simply for who he was and who they were, was more upsetting than the Hebrew cared to admit. To this was added the fact that after the tense night he had - having watched the Roman soldiers a longer while than would allow for peaceful rest - he too was on the wrong side of irritable. Instead of an answer, Aaron let his fists talk for him. The exact moves he used are a blur to him by nightfall, but he was upon Il Rosso quicker than the Latin saw coming. His knuckles pounded into the Roman's flesh, the latter managing to put up little resistance. Aaron wouldn't have killed him, even in this fit of rage he wouldn't, not like that. But he did draw blood. For that, the harming of the master's property, Frank had him lashed. The _doctor_ had no other choice and his look of disappointment in his gladiator spoke volumes. He did go easy on Aaron. Only fifteen lashings. It could have been worse. The Israelite grit his teeth against them and while Frank counted each time the leather forcefully landed on skin, Aaron was also counting. Not anything in particular, he simply recited numbers in his head. Focused his mind on not losing an internal pace. Inhaled with some numbers, exhaled with others. Tried not to stop breathing. The pain was harder to take when he accidentally did stop. Afterwards, he was sent to the _medicus_ for his wounds to be treated. 

As Aaron considers the events of the day, the worst part is knowing Commander Tiberius had observed him fighting with Il Rosso. He heard as much mentioned in passing by the Namibian gladiator to a Greek fighter. It's no surprise by now, the commander's continued interest. Yet it is an added cause for worry all the same, another in a growing list after today. The suspicions the Roman has, which this fight could have easily be taken to confirm. Il Rosso's prolonged antagonizing, which will be even harder to deal with after this day. Frank's delusion that he has taken on the mantle of mentorship with Aaron, adding to the attentions unwanted by the Hebrew gladiator. 

The crackles of the bonfire sound louder. It is madness to consider escaping the _ludus_. It is hopeless and mad, no matter how sure Aaron is that today has left him with no other options. The pagans around him believe it is wrong to stare too long into the flames. The gods whose power is control over the fire use its enticing dance to drive men out of their minds, make those men believe they have powers only deities are allowed to possess, then punish them for this sinful arrogance. If these fellow gladiators would learn that one of their own was looking into the fire, considering escape, they would say it is the flames giving birth to his madness. 

But Aaron believes in only one God, whose power is limitless. He's not afraid of the thoughts running wild in his mind as he watches the flames. He's not mad either. Nor did he start planning for this possibility just now. He's been studying the movements of the guards ever since he had arrived. Neither are his hopes those of most slaves who entertain the thought of escape, only to eventually abandon it. Fleeing this site will not save him from the Roman commander if the man is indeed closing in on him. It will give him time, however, and time is all he requires. He will not flee to another town and the forests with their threats matter little to him. For his purposes, he doesn't need to overcome them for good. He is not looking for a way to live his life fully after his escape. All he need do in the forest is survive for as long as he can. Surely it will be longer than however much is left to him if he remains here. He has nothing to fear out there for he has nothing to lose. He hasn't had anything like that for too long and if this is madness, it's not the fire that has made him lose his wits. 

The fire goes on, consuming its wooden logs. Aaron is waiting. 

He's been following the shifts of the guards since the other gladiators began retiring for the night, in anticipation of just the right moment. He's got his light protective gear still on him and a _pugio_ tucked out of sight. He doesn't need more. Any additional equipment will slow him down. The rest of what he will need, he will have to get through the use of force once he's out and far enough from this place. He knows just where and how to strike to not get caught when he will look for additional provisions. Or at least to not get caught too easily and too soon. 

The guard at this part of the courtyard is meant to go on patrol any minute now. He's moving. Aaron keeps his eyes trained on the fire, looking out as he has this entire time, only under cover. Out of the corner of his eye. His attention must go unnoticed. 

This guard is slower than most, but soon he will round a corner beyond which there is a small stretch where the fire's light doesn't reach its surroundings as fully. The clouds that hold back the moonlight tonight will serve to temporarily blind the guard at that spot more than he usually would be. The corner's just far enough that sounds from Aaron's area shouldn't be heard there too much either. Once the guard enters that section, he will step out of it within about 20 seconds, perhaps 25 given his pace, providing the Hebrew with just enough enough time to run over and fling himself over the wall if he times it right. His hand is on his _pugio_ , ready to extract. He contracts his leg muscles in preparation for his sprint. Three more seconds till that corner is reached by the guard. Two. One. 

Aaron pulls out the dagger at the very same moment he jumps to his feet and starts running. He runs as fast as he possibly can as he counts the seconds he has left before the guard will reach a better lit area again. Nine seconds and he's almost at his goal, ten. There are small dents in the wooden wall he gets to. Nobody has spotted them so far, Aaron's carved them out with great care, making sure they will seem like a part of the natural wear and tear of such walls. It's taken him a long time, being able to do this undiscovered. Five minutes here. Three minutes there. Usually using the foggy veil of victors' orgies. He hits the dagger into a lower, smaller dent. Uses that swiftly to fling himself up and catch with his hand a higher and bigger one. Fifteen, sixteen. He places his foot into yet another one that enables him to both pull his dagger out and push himself up, to the top of the wall. He's got a good hold on it and can throw himself over it to the other side. 

Twenty. The fall is the painful part, when it was always clear to him there would be a moment of shock. If he could get over that quickly, recover and move away from the wall, he would have a fighting chance. It's even worse than he thought it would be, as he had not taken the fresh wounds from the lashings into account. He grinds his teeth to keep from making any sounds. Twenty one, twenty two and he's on his feet. He's running once more. He can hear voices from behind, thinks they may be growing louder. The guard might have noticed something. Or maybe he hasn't, not just yet. After all, Aaron managed to get out of there before the guard would have gotten his field of vision back. To be on the safe side, he must assume the former option to be true. Aaron is running so fast, it feels like not even his breath can catch up to him. 

He's running, but the night is too dark, limiting what he can make out of his surroundings and this is the part he couldn't plan for. Get to the shelter of the town's border marked by the forest, that was his goal. Beyond that all he has is his fate. He's running as fast as he can, but his breath is beginning to betray him. He makes it to the start of the trees line, continues beyond it. He's reached his set goal, yet after having reached this spot, it doesn't feel far enough. Soon he will have to stop, though. He's put so much into his sprint of a run, there's less and less left. When his legs feel for a second like they're about to betray him and implode under him, he comes to a halt. Is it safe? He tries to listen, but all he can hear is himself, panting heavily, too loud in his own ears. He turns around, as he hopes that he'll be able to pick up sounds better that way, then he freezes. 

A shadow among the trees. 

Silhouette of the man who had prompted Aaron to attempt escape in the first place. Pointing a sword at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tegimen - body armor  
> Medicus - doctor, healer  
> Pugio - dagger
> 
> * I know the whole thing with the Latin vs English meaning of 'doctor' is confusing. I apologize for that! It's part of why I opted for italicizing the Latin words, so hopefully it's not too bad... The English counterpart is actually connected to the Latin origin. If you're not curious as to how that happened, skip the rest of this paragraph. The Latin word in its meaning of 'teacher' came by way of extension to also refer to a scholar. That's why those who graduated their studies were known as 'doctor of'. Out of the four initial fields one could be a 'doctor of' (art, law, theology, medicine), the most common for the average person to come across was the 'doctor of medicine' title. From that, people took 'doctor' to mean 'medical practitioner' and God, I hope this wasn't too confusing, but isn't the evolution of words between different languages fascinating? Why yes, I am the Geekiest of the Geeky. 
> 
> * This chapter hints at the famous revolt by slaves against Rome, led among others by Spartacus. I wanted to be as accurate with the way the free Romans and the gladiators would have seen it roughly two hundred years down the line, given what we know. But it has to be said that the idea of the rebellion meant to destroy the system of slavery in ancient Rome seems to be a romanticized notion. Based on certain actions and choices made by the revolting slaves, it appears more likely that they were looking to free themselves, not so much others, and then they sought to continue attacking the Romans and stealing from them. For the dramatic purposes of the story, however, I went with the traditional notion that the Spartacus uprising was meant to put an end to the Roman system of slavery.


	5. Chapter 5

In times of greatest danger, there is a different type of sands that Aaron remembers. They spring into his mind unbidden. Golden and unblemished. Hot under his bare feet as he used to run around in them, the sound of childish laughter still ringing in his ears. A far off, almost forgotten realm of childhood. Memories he will not get to return to. The clouds must have dispersed as for a brief second, the moonlight pierces through the trees and reaches the sword that is pointed at him. There's a pale, cold glint reflected off its blade, a cruel reminder of how brilliant the sun was in contrast, how warm it was as it lit those lost sands of gold, of the way it almost made them come alive.

The man he's facing would not care about any of these things. What Aaron can do to save himself isn't much. "How could you possibly know that I would flee the _ludus_ tonight?" For the little that is within his realm of possibilities, he can try to throw Tiberius off his balance, change their expected dynamics. Pose questions right away to the Roman commander rather than accept that he's the one who's to be interrogated. Speak demandingly to the man as if among the Romans a slave had a right to any answers. 

"I watched you." Aaron can barely make out the face of the man speaking to him. "I could tell that you recognized the danger. That you had been found out. This couldn't have left you with many options, difficult as fleeing must be. You strike me as too smart to stay put when danger is so near. Which was especially evident after your squabble with Il Rosso. It's almost impossible to hide yourself when moments like that expose you. I saw your expression right after that fight and there was nothing that I needed to figure out. I just had to wait for you outside the wall from a distance and follow you once you had made your escape." 

Aaron snorts. His heavy breathing has started to subside, as if his body is weirdly calming down precisely when it should be gearing up for a fight. "What an attentive audience you make," he remarks. "So I was right, in that case. You have made up your mind." 

"That you're the man responsible for the killing of several _legionari_ in the past few months around town? Undoubtedly." 

Aaron can feel the pained grimace that spreads across his face. "And what made you so sure it was me? There had to be something that made you decide it could be no one else." 

"I noticed that all the soldiers who were killed had one thing in common. Each of them had served in the same unit, which was stationed in Judea during the Hebrew revolt. I thought whoever the killer is, he must be with a connection to that land as well." 

"Did you?" Aaron's voice is low and calm. "I'm not the only Hebrew gladiator in the town's _ludi_ , thanks to the end that you have put to our revolt." 

"No," Tiberius agrees. The number of Hebrew men taken captive and forced to entertain Roman audiences as gladiators after the Great Revolt was squashed could not be kept a secret given how many of them were dealt this fate, though their numbers dwindled quickly. "But I do believe you to be the most skilled one." Most of those men were not warriors. Their decision to fight back against oppressive measures taken by the Roman Empire could not supply most of them with training or experience. The beat of Aaron's pulse at his temples is palpable to him and dull at the same time. 

He shakes his head in refusal slowly, stubbornly. "I'm not skilled. I'm merely still around." It's difficult, there are things he could never forget. His gaze does not leave Commander Tiberius' features. They seem to be easier to observe. It's not just the receding of clouds. The first flimsy signs of dawn must be starting to break out. 

Dawn isn't the beginning of the Jewish day. That used to baffle Aaron when he was younger. 'Day,' he later on once heard an elder of his community explain to some of the older kids when Aaron was not supposed to be listening, 'begins for us with evening and extends into the next morning and following bright afternoon, when the sun is at its peak in the skies. This is because the essence of day is a movement, a progression. From darkness to light. And darkness is always, remember that, no matter how great the dark may grow, it is always followed by light.' 

What would that spiritual man say to him now if they could talk? 

Aaron always knew it would be a fall. His death. He never could explain this certainty or where it came from, but he had no doubt that his demise would entail a fall. He never spoke of it as he had no reason to believe others would understand that this notion, it offered him reassurance. He might have fled for his life, now openly a runaway criminal, whatever else he did or did not do. He may be standing with a sword pointed at him. Yet dawn is beginning to crawl in. Reminding him the promise of motion towards light is not gone. Sword drawn out at him or no sword, he is still standing, there is solid ground underneath his feet. Whatever this may be, it does not yet feel like the end. 

Aaron's eyes may continue to strain in order to notice the small details, but he can definitely see the Roman better than when the man had showed up. Dawn, progressively tainting the world brighter. "You could have settled for warning my _lanista_ , told him to send his guards to get the spooked fugitive Hebrew slave." 

The Roman commander, Aaron realizes as the increased amount of light further improves his vision, that bastard is smiling at all of this. 

"Never trust the _lanista_ 's guards to do what you can do better." Not only is the Roman quite unfazed by the situation, he comes across as almost gleeful about having caught Aaron by himself rather than through alerting the gladiator's master. Probably anticipating the glory of how one undeniable charge against the Hebrew will be taken to be irrefutable proof of the other one. Once a slave commits even a single offense, that's enough. There really isn't much else those who have never known the feel of shackles won't believe him capable of. 

Aaron does not share Tiberius' sense of joy. With a raised eyebrow, the Israelite inquires, "do you mistrust your own soldiers too, that you should come unaccompanied? That is not a wise choice to make." He has already started calculating exactly what would be required of him in order to do away with the commander. The hand in which he is still holding the _pugio_ comes forward and into the commander's line of sight, shorter, thinner blade pointing right back at the Roman's own. "I've witnessed enough of the cruelty of your executions to know I will not let myself die by Roman hands, not in such a manner." 

The commander isn't smiling anymore. 

For the briefest of seconds, Aaron can hear his own heartbeat growing louder and louder yet before his mind makes sense of the sound and tells him he's picking up on the noise raised by several approaching mounted riders. Surely these are the Roman soldiers coming here in search of their commander. About to deny the Israelite his chance to fight for his sliver of freedom in determining what is to happen to him. Dawn is insisting on brightening up the world around them even more, allowing Aaron to catch a glimpse of the look in the Roman's eyes. 

That cannot be. The commander's expression should have registered as relief or approval at being joined by his subordinates, but it looks more like fear. Just as soon as Aaron notes this, Tiberius' sword moves. It's the wrong angle to attack the Hebrew, all wrong for disarming him. All the motion accomplishes instead is to shove the hand Aaron's still got closed around his dagger down and slightly to the side, followed immediately by the commander letting go of his _gladius_ and leaving it to fall on the ground, motionless and useless. It is a sequence of actions just swift, odd and counterintuitive enough to surprise the Israelite so greatly that he does not respond, like he should have. His sudden paralysis allows the Roman to move in and engulf the gladiator in an embrace. In so doing, he turns them to stand with his own back directed to the incoming riders. Using his _paludamentum_ to obscure the Hebrew and his dagger from the arriving men. Grabbing the side of the Hebrew's face and sealing his own lips over Aaron's. 

When the riders stop by them, interrupting, and the Roman moves away, Aaron is still too stunned to be left doing anything but stand frozen. 

Commander Tiberius turns around to those newly arrived with the caution required to make sure he continues to keep Aaron's weapon concealed from the eyes of those men. The _lanista_ and his accompanying guards. The Hebrew comprehands and takes with renewed agility a posture conveying obedience, hands behind his back, the dagger he's still clutching in them now safely out of sight. 

"Ah, Commander. I see you are satiating your appetites with my fighter. Pity you should not make your desires manifest to me. With my daughter's help, we could have found you a more fitting tool to use. This one is Judean filth." His tone lowers at the end with honest disdain. 

" _Dominus_ Laurentius," Commander Tiberius flashes a big smile at the wealthy and elderly gladiators owner. Too big, even. Aaron can tell it's a fake grin, it looks so different to what he had seen so far in his interactions with the commander. "Your hospitality has been most generous, would it not be safe to assume that there is no slave you would not grant me, to satisfy passing desires? And this one," Tiberius adds as if sharing a special secret, a truth too sweet for the old man to deny, "may be lowly, but he has spirit. That can be a pleasurable challenge, to break it." 

"Mmm." The _lanista_ doesn't sound satisfied with the commander's reply. "Perhaps. But had you spoken, we would not have worried there was a slave attempting escape." 

"Apologies, _Dominus_ ," Commander Tiberius' gaze at Laurentius is direct, his tone far more playful than the docile content of his words. He's appeasing the old man rather than sincerely apologizing. "My taste for a challenge, with a slave as readily as on the battlefield, must have made me overlook this possible outcome. I'll be sure not to repeat my mistake in the future." 

"Yes, you be sure of it. Never forget, Tiberius, that you may be accused of not having reign over your desires. That may lead to dire consequences if you allow yourself to go overboard and are found guilty of engaging in a _stuprum_." 

"No," the response from the commander is low and breathy, clearly only meant for Laurentius' ears, "I never forget that which I mustn't do." 

Aaron would roll his eyes if he could. How the old man goes unaware that he is being played with an implicit promise of forbidden, conquered yearning is beyond the gladiator. It's easy for the commander to throw it out there, given Roman perceptions of _stuprum_ , he'll never be asked to follow through. And duped the target of Tiberius' charms is, as his next words are uttered in a softer tone. 

"Have your fill, then. Don't forget your sword on the ground there. That Judean animal may take advantage of your oversight and try to take you out. We would not want that. And forget not our extended invitation for you to come and dine with my daughter and myself tonight. She is overseeing the preparations for a true feast." 

"Gratitude, _Dominus_. I look forward to it." The commander in his answer ignores the part about his _gladius_ , most likely on purpose. The old man nods at him, taking leave, and the gesture is reciprocated by Tiberius. The Roman commander looks on for a while longer as the horses of Laurentius and his men ride off in the direction of town, before he turns back to Aaron. The smirk on his face falls at once. 

"Are we back to this, then?" He gestures carefully at the _pugio_ , drawn out again. 

"I don't know what cruel trick you have in mind for which you spared me capture by the _lanista_ , but I have no intention of finding out." 

The commander sighs. His shoulders slouch almost imperceptibly. "If I could have had you arrested with no fight, since there were so many guards present, what sort of trick do you think I intend to play on you? I did not bring about your arrest since I do not desire your possible execution for the crime of fleeing. That would have been, to speak truthfully... a great loss." The Roman allows his eyes to leave the dagger and shamelessly travel over Aaron's body, making his intent evident. 

Aaron squints his eyes with suspicion at the smile that has returned to the commander's lips. He is pleased by none of this. "That was your mistake, then. You should have considered this threat to your life." He takes a step forward, leveling up his _pugio_ at the commander. 

"I could have done that, but I do trust you to see," Tiberius' grin only widens and his intonation is mischievous once more. As the Roman lowers his gaze to Aaron's mouth, the Hebrew gladiator catches a hint of tongue peeking out for a second, like the man is about to lick his lips in want, "my death would be a great loss as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ludi - gladiatorial training schools  
> Paludamentum - commander's cloak  
> Dominus - master  
> Stuprum - illicit sexual act
> 
> * I keep writing _Dominus_ with a capital D as is the English custom (because of the language of this fic), but in actuality, there were only ever capital letters in Latin. There would have been no distinguishing between upper and lower case letters. 
> 
> * If a Roman citizen was perceived to have committed an illicit sexual act, they really could lose some of their civic rights. However, don't forget that what the Romans would have defined as _stuprum_ is not necessarily what we would consider illicit sex today. 
> 
> * It's sort of obvious that Aaron, as an Israelite, would refer to the region as **Judea** , but some may wonder why a Roman commander would do the same if the Romans eventually changed the name of the land from Judea to **Syria Palaestina**. This story takes place not long after the end of the Great Revolt. It was a Hebrew uprising that lasted a few years and was definitively squashed in 73 AD. The Romans only changed the land's name (most likely as a way of reaffirming the Roman severing of ties between the Jews and their homeland) after the Bar Kochva revolt, the third and last of the Jewish uprisings against the Romans, which broke out in 132 AD and was only fully suppressed in 136 AD. That means Commander Tiberius would have, at the time of this story, still referred to the land as Judea (to be exact, Judea is the English variant we use today, which came about much later. Tiberius would have used the Roman variant **Iudaea** , while Aaron would have used the original Hebrew name, **Yehuda** ). 
> 
> [Bonus, in case you're curious how did the Romans come up with 'Palaestina': Before them, **Pleshet** was the strip of land along the Mediterranean Sea (roughly corresponding to today's Gaza Strip) that was populated by a nation referred to by the Hebrew as the 'Plishtim', a name derived from the Hebrew word 'Polshim', meaning invaders. This term was actually used by the Jews for more than one nation in the Bible. As the most notorious of the groups defined by the Hebrews as invaders was a nation of Greek descent (they're widely believed to have been seafarers from Crete occupying and settling territories in a Vikings-styled conquest), the Greeks were therefore familiar with the name **Palaistine** for this strip of land. Through them, so were the Romans. When the story takes place, **Philistia** still refers to that specific strip along the Mediterranean Sea. Later on, it was used by the Romans as a part of the name for the entire country, in combination with the name 'Syria', which was the territory north of Judea. Between Philistia from the west and Syria from the north, the name Syria Palaestina was meant to convey to Jews that Judea had been swallowed up and no longer exists]


	6. Chapter 6

The arena is easy. The sands are traitorous in their false gleaming beauty, but the rules are simple and clear. It's a part of why Aaron has never struggled to figure out his way there, because he has always understood exactly what they were. Defeat or be defeated. Earn the right not to be killed. Hope you won't have to kill either, but be prepared that you may be forced to do so. The arena strips its fighters of their safety and dignity, but it does so first and foremost by taking away their freedom to choose. That is the true game at play.

Aaron mentally measures the distance between his dagger and Commander Tiberius. Between them and the waking town. Between the different consequences that might be born out of the many options he has before him. The current freedom of speech he gets to enjoy is too tempting not to pursue. He grimaces at the Roman. 

"Those salacious remarks you made, do they truly work for you or is it that no slave has yet had the opportunity to draw a weapon on you?" 

The commander's expression is one of hurt. "Do you honestly believe I'm in need of using coercion when I am interested in someone?" He tilts his head and turns a little sideways in what is meant to be a gesture of indignation. "I would never resort to such measures." It makes Aaron think of a petulant child. The words may be true, the commander strikes the gladiator as conceited enough to believe everyone would want him, but the hurt emotions are an act. That head tilt is really meant to emphasize a strong jawline. The small turn, to stress out a set of wide shoulders and chest, to make the muscles pop out. 

Aaron measures the distance between himself and the person he prefers to be. 

"If you say so. I will have your sword now, Roman." The commander's gladius is actually a small way out of the man's reach, still useless on the ground. But if Aaron bends down for it, Tiberius might try to attack him. He may be able to stop the Hebrew gladiator, he may not. Aaron needs him not to try. "I'll leave this town and you will need not set eyes upon me again. I'll be someone else's problem and you will have no need to risk yourself with a _legionari_ murderer." 

Tiberius' face falls, turning pale enough to let Aaron know that this reaction, it is no act. 

"If you take it, I will be forced to pursue. Even if you do not, they are never going to relent on a fugitive slave. They will come for you. Surely you know that this path holds no chance for you." 

"Let them come. They'll see what I have in store for them." 

The Roman's cheeks fill with color anew as he bursts out, passionately opposing this statement. He tries to convince Aaron that such intentions are folly. It's so tiring to the Hebrew gladiator. He can't figure out the motivations of the Roman commander. Is the man driven by a desire for monetary gain if he aids in the return of an escaped slave? Does he fear a loss of glory if he doesn't capture and bring to justice the man who he believes murdered the Roman _legionari_? Is it revenge for his fallen brethren? Yet, how does he truly expect Aaron to be won over and play along with his own re-enslavement using nothing but talk? 

"If," Aaron cuts Tiberius off, "you are so certain that you must stop my escape further into the forest, you're welcome to pick up that sword and try to stop me." 

"I..." the Roman starts and stops. "I don't..." he shrugs his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't actually want to fight you." 

This makes no sense to Aaron. A soldier not wanting to fight. Does the commander consider him such easy prey? It angers him, that the Roman wouldn't want to even do battle with him because the Israelite is seen as enough of a fool to be stopped from fleeing with as little as false niceties and fraudulent promises that surrendering would be better than continuing his escape. 

"You may have to now," he says as he uses his foot on the commander's _gladius_ , still just outside of the man's grip, "if you are indeed intent on stopping me." He shoves it closer to the Roman. "Go ahead and take it. I'm a dangerous man, remember? You're the one who's discovered what I've done, after all". 

Tiberius isn't sure how to react, his hesitation is sincere. "You're awaiting the moment I bend to attack me." 

"Would I even pass on your sword to you if I were the sort to do such a thing?" 

The commander's voice tenses up. "What do you expect of me then, to praise your nobility in not attacking an unarmed man and to refuse to take arms against you?" 

Aaron can feel the clench in the muscles of his jaw. "You talk too much, Roman." He gestures with his head at the _gladius_ on the ground, making it clear this is the only form of communication left to them. He awaits the attack for several another minute, maybe a little more. His arm holding the dagger is growing tired. "No?" he asks with some amount of mockery thrown in there. "Alright then." He takes a few steps back before he turns and leaves. 

The Roman commander might be acting strangely, but he would not let Aaron go. This move is meant to coax the man into action. The Hebrew fighter can hear behind him noises that let him know it's worked. Tiberius must have rushed to his _gladius_ and in less than a second, he'll be trying to strike the gladiator from behind. 

Aaron turns just in time, dagger clenched tightly in his fist, punching forward and up to block the sword he's expecting to fall upon him. He does this only to register that he's aiming at no weapon. Tiberius' hands are empty and reaching out, half curled, like the man was trying to grab the Aaron's shoulders to stop him, not to attack. The Hebrew recognizes this just in time to divert his own actions by changing the angle at the last split second, the _pugio_ now pointed away from the Roman, right before the Israelite's fist connects. 

The moment of impact is harsh. Aaron drops the dagger, but follows through on the strike he managed to land. The commander may not have been armed, but the man was trying to stop him. The gladiator takes advantage of that blink of an eye when the Roman is caught off balance by the punch. He uses that to knock him to the ground, but Tiberius recovers enough to grab at him in the midst of that and they both go down. Their fists are tangled in the other man's outfit, each one struggling to roll them both over in a way that would gain them back their control and enable a move that would faze their opponent. The struggle is too close to leave the space required for any surprise moves, it's mostly about who will be able to pin down and constraint the other man. For what feels like a short eternity, all that can be heard is the sound of the rustling leaves on the forest ground underneath them and their exerted grunting through their clenched teeth. 

When Tiberius almost gains the upper hand, Aaron succeeds in capturing his arm without letting go of the grip he has on the commander's _tunica_. He locks the arm into an angle that allows him to turn them so the Roman is pinned under him. The Hebrew's own arm ends up now perched under Commander Tiberius' chin and over his neck. The soldier struggles but in this position, he can't stop what's about to happen. If anything, it serves to quicken it. The gladiator applies more and more pressure onto the commander's neck, beginning to suffocate the man. There's no mistaking that when strangulation sounds are forced out of him. 

Aaron stops. 

Without removing his arm, he stops pushing. The Roman takes a small gasp of air. Above the defeated commander, the victor of the struggle reclines his head. 

The voice of Tiberius comes in hoarse, closer than the Israelite would have thought that it would be and oh so sudden. 

"Aaron," what a strange thing, to have the Roman's breath carry the whisper of his own name into his ear. It feels like thunder under his skin, rolling. "Aaron, please." 

Almost like the Hebrew is seen as a person, not as property. 

He raises his head back up and looks right at the commander. Measures distances in his mind. 

The Roman looks into his eyes. "Please. You don't want to fight me either." 

Aaron lets go of the commander's arm, though he doesn't pull his weight back. 

"I should," he finally says. "You're one of them." 

He gets off and, not taking his eyes away from Tiberius for longer than he has to, he sits down not too far from the man, on the ground next to where he finds his abandoned _pugio_. To be on the safe side. 

The commander doesn't rise straight away. Aaron sees him feeling his throat, as if evaluating that it was indeed not crushed. He slowly gets up into a sitting position as well. 

An additional minute or two pass. 

"One of them. You mean, a Roman?" Tiberius' right hand is still up at his neck. When he gets no answer, he continues. "Would it matter if I told you that I wasn't one?" 

That is not what Aaron expected to hear. "Would that be the truth?" he cautiously asks in return. 

"Why would I lie?" Tiberius raises an eyebrow. "To save myself? You've just proven my life is not on the line at your hands." 

"Your name..." 

"Tiberius is the name given to me upon my joining the Roman army. You can serve as a regular soldier, but not advance to the post of a _praeceptorem_ with a Germanic name." 

"Germanic?" Aaron couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. 

"My clan..." the man's voice is low and unsure in its slow pacing, as if he's not convinced he should be saying any of this, "Rome conquered our villages... defeated our men and my clan was too small to have any choice but to surrender. If we hadn't done that, I believe we would have been annihilated. My father... he's the chieftain of my village. He agreed to serve the Romans and as a guarantee of fealty, he committed to have his own son take the mantle of a Roman soldier. I was too young to be heard on the matter. On whether I wanted to leave and to lead this life or not. I had to join their army and I was seventeen years old when that happened." 

When he's done, the commander's gaze is turned down. He might be recalling small details that he most likely hasn't reminisced over in some time. A silence stretches between them, like neither one knows what to do now. 

Aaron tries to process all of this new information. The commander was born the princeling of his village, with a future as bright as his hair and smile. He grew up confident in who he was, in his luck and his freedom, only to see all of that disappear, taken from him and his people along with their liberties. He might never have been subjected to lashings and chains, he might not have officially been defined as a slave, but he was, in a sense, a prisoner too. 

He could have turned the Hebrew slave in, but he didn't. He could have fought the gladiator to the brink of death rather than accept defeat. That was the way of Rome. And he did fight, but he relinquished his sword from the start. 

"You really are no Roman," Aaron mumbles, wondering what he should do next given this unexpected knowledge. 

"As you are no murderer," the commander responds. "You couldn't have killed those legionari any more than you could murder me just now, when you had the chance to." 

"Oh," Aaron's voice is bitter. "Oh, but I did kill them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tunica - woolen, short sleeved garment, soldiers wore it under the armor  
> Praeceptorem - commander
> 
> * Tunics in Roman society expressed, through their length, style and colors, the status of the person wearing them. Soldiers would have worn the simplest type of tunics, which would normally end above the knee, while more affluent members of Rome wore theirs going all the way down to the ankle. 
> 
> * At first, soldiers in the Rome's army could only be Roman themselves, but as they conquered more and more lands, they were in need of more men to guard and further expand their borders. That's why they ended up even opening their ranks to people they had conquered, a move that centuries later would contribute to the erosion and decline of the Roman Empire.


	7. Chapter 7

The sun has been gradually rising upon them, its rays restoring to the world its lost warmth. It fills the air with something rather bright, close to golden hues, but not quite. There are no sands underneath Aaron. Instead, brown grass and dried up leaves are scattered all over the parched earth at his feet. Here and there, a small sudden gust of wind moves one or two of them briefly. The sound of the leaves rustling about is the only noise to puncture the quiet that befell them after the Israelite's admission.

The commander looks stunned for the entire duration. When he finally speaks, it's a bewildered "No, you didn't," that he throws at Aaron. 

"See it as you will," the Hebrew shrugs. "Don't believe it if you have no desire to." He looks down at his dagger and wonders what to do next. He has time to decide. Laurentius will not expect for a slave being used for pleasure by a Roman soldier to be returned too quickly. If Aaron's escape is meant to be continued, however, he should use this to put more of a distance between himself and the men who will come chasing. 

"You couldn't have." 

"Couldn't I?" Aaron asks, his mind still more focused on other matters. "Because I spared your life when I could have ended it? You left your sword on the ground when you could have attacked me with it. Should I take that to mean you had never killed a man?" 

Silence. 

Just like that, his mind snaps back into place. It's madness to explain things to this man. To convince him that the unprotected Hebrew slave before him is in fact the murderer he is seeking. A Roman the commander may not be, but he is still a _legionarius_. Maybe the fire had in fact driven Aaron crazy. 

"I did not wish to see you go." The commander says it so quietly, it's almost soft. Then, a bit stronger, he continues. "As I've told you, there is only one possible end to your escape and that is your eventual demise. They would have branded you with the letter 'F' for _fugitivus_ and in the best of cases, they would have sent you to the mines, to your certain death..." A small break and then his voice has a more pleading edge to it, "it does not have to be so. You can return with me," he's getting worked up once more as he delves into what the alternative he's offering Aaron would be, "I could protect you. No one would punish you for what they know not that you have done. The escape and... the other matter. I would be your shield. I'd make sure you were safe." 

Perhaps the commander has been staring too long into the fire as well. 

"Why would you do that? You would gain much more if you brought me to trial." A thought crosses Aaron's mind. "If you mean to get from me what you had suggested to my _lanista_ , be warned, I **will** cut you limb from limb." 

The commander chuckles. "I would not be opposed to it, but I have no doubt I could not impose my wishes upon you. I would never be foolish enough to even try." 

"Then why make such comments to me? There are enough slaves in Laurentius' _ludus_ for you to satiate your desires with. You could have your way with any of them." 

"Well," the commander bites his lower lip, appearing to be pondering Aaron's question, "it's possible I hoped they may come to be your desires as well." A grin turns his mouth into the embodiment of self-satisfaction as if it was not a possibility, but a certainty that this is how things would eventually turn out. 

Aaron sighs and does roll his eyes this time, shaking his head in disapproval. "Please, take on a _concubinus_ and spare me." 

The commander frowns and looks down. "I couldn't do anything so... open." 

"Why? The Romans you serve would not be opposed to it." 

"No. No, they wouldn't be." 

It takes Aaron another second to put things together. "Your father? He would object to you sharing a part of your life with another male?" 

"He already has." 

Aaron's not sure of why he feels surprised, as well as dismayed by how a man he has never met had chosen to treat his son. Of why he cares at all. 

"What did he do?" 

The man across from him shifts his sitting posture. From a sprawled out position, he draws into himself, bends his knees to his chest, stretches his arms in an arch that fits over his legs and comes to hold one hand in the other just above his ankles. Then he turns his face to the side, so his mouth is hidden against his upper right arm. His gaze is lowered and when he begins to speak again, it is partly muffled. 

"There was a boy in my village. One of the poorer farmers' son. A year or two older than I was. He was my friend. And the Gods had favored him when it came to his looks. I was..." 

Aaron understands. "Fond of him?" 

The man nods. "I was. I did not know what he felt for me. If it was mere friendly emotions or if it could have been something... more. We used to play together in the fields and that was good enough for me. Until one day, when I took him to my room. I wanted to show him a new sword I had received from my father. He... he went to kiss me. No. No, he did kiss me. I... can't remember what that felt like. Whenever I try to recall, all that comes back to me is my father's face. He was there, he saw us and he was furious. He banned the farmer and his son from our village. Claimed it was because he had caught that man stealing. Me, he beat up and reminded me that I'm to be grateful. That our people drown in the swamps those men who commit bodily corruption with other men. He never spoke of this again, but then he never looked me right in the eyes anymore either. When the Romans demanded that as a guarantee of the alliance between our peoples, he give them his son for a soldier and a hostage... I think he was glad to be rid of me." 

Aaron breathes in. "Fathers can..." He is not sure what to say. He's not used to the role of offering comfort. "They can be... disappointing. You should not mind him. It might have been painful when he gave you up to the Romans, and it might not have been his intention at the time, but he did end up helping you. He gave you freedom. With the remarks that you made to me, with the way you behaved with Laurentius? You are free. Let not his shadow bother you." 

The commander doesn't appear impressed by the mention. "Laurentius is but what I must do to ensure myself of the old man's favor. He was about to bar my access to his _ludus_. Not an admirer of how murder investigations might influence his gladiatorial business, as it turns out." 

Aaron presses his lips in scorn. "Might be even less of a help to his finances if it were his men being killed off instead of random soldiers." 

He gets a snort in response. "It is a reminder, however. The Romans are not free men either. If I did fancy Laurentius, I could not pursue him." 

"Only younger boys and slaves for real men, is that right?" 

"Hmmm. And no wives for the soldiers. We must devote our entire selves to the empire. That eldest daughter of your _lanista_ , I might have been interested if her hand was available to me in marriage. That would have given me some surer status among the Romans." 

Aaron gets that logic, but it still sends a wave of revulsion through him. 

"Then isn't it better that she's not an option? What you have may not be perfect, but it's as much liberty as one can dream of in this society. Whatever your father might have said will never matter again." 

The commander looks at him again. There's something akin to a frown there. "Would you have accepted it if your father had treated you and a boy kissing you in a similar manner?" 

Aaron shrugs off his shoulders as he raises his gaze to the horizon. Which way to Jerusalem? For a second, he's too disoriented to remember to which direction he would have to turn in order to be facing east. 

"I never knew my father," he says drily, "and there are no swamps in Judea large enough to drown men in." 

What kind of a reaction could that get him? Most probably, a sour one. "But," a smile creeps onto the other man's lips, "you would have let a boy kiss you?" 

Aaron looks directly at the man whose name he thought he knew without any flinching. "If I wanted him to." 

Now it's the commander's turn to be taken aback. Perhaps he anticipated that Aaron would be upset at the question or that he would choose adamant denial. There's a little huff that rings something like frustration before the other man notes, "I thought I'd heard that your people were opposed to such intimacies between two men." 

Aaron lets one eyebrow rise as he contemplates how best to explain where he has come from. 

"We once had a mighty and much beloved king. He was beautiful and had a golden singing voice. He won wars, saved our people from our tormentors and built us a capital, up in the mountains. But before he was crowned, before the people embraced him as if he was the epitome of all that was good... before all that, he was a boy, loved by the son of the king who ruled us before him. The two young men... their love was known and no one ever thought that it was wrong. They had the deepest of bonds. Our people were sure that a love so great could only come from our God. Only the prince's father opposed their union, because he too knew that it was ordained and that this was a part of God's will to replace him with the boy as our next king." 

"Everyone simply accepted them? No one ever objected?" 

"As things unfolded, the king's son died fighting for our nation... If he hadn't, they would probably still be expected to marry and beget children. But everyone knew their connection was one of love. Their consummation of it was not a part of what the priests of my faith fear most when it comes to men laying together, it wasn't a part of worshipping foreign gods through the form of ritualistic intercourse. The wise men among my people once said that those two men's love was one which was of the truest and purest kind. A love for all of us to aspire to." 

Aaron studies the face before him as he recounts the tale. There's not the awe there that he was thinking he would see, reflecting his own at what his nation's elders held up as an example. Instead, what the Hebrew observes is the story he shared being mulled over, as if its content and veracity must be thoroughly assessed. 

The Judean inhales deeply. "What?" he asks, sharper than he intended. 

"I truly would not have thought that this would be possible for men from your society." 

Aaron's temper flares. "You mean, you had assumed my lack of interest was due to my being Judean. Not because anyone could possibly have an aversion to you, specifically." 

The man shakes his head with amused exasperation. "This is why the other gladiators do not like you, I hope you're aware of this. I spoke to your _doctor_ , I heard from him that's what they say. Would it be so terrible to falsify a more pleasing, less angered sociable demeanor? For at least some interactions?" 

Such an irreverent reply, evading his point completely, but its blunt honesty and accuracy when it comes to Aaron's tendencies somehow make him smile, if only on the inside. "If I did, how then would I learn invaluable information," It's more difficult than one would think, pretending to still be madder than he is, "such as why do my fighting brethren dislike me?" It's especially difficult when he seems to be less and less inclined to pretense with this man. 

His conversationalist's tone is back to serious. "You believe it's because you are Jewish?" 

"Wouldn't you?" 

The man tilts his head, as if to examine Aaron's face better. Even though he must know the answer does not lie there. "It probably is for the most part, yes. But your charming disposition is not helping you either." 

"How fortunate that my charming disposition - or lack thereof - is none of your concern." 

"What if I'd like it to be?" 

"I cannot help you if you are interested in a world of hurt." 

The man grins, but there is a hint of honest sadness there, too. "I never did quite learn to stay away from what was bad for me." 

Aaron nods. "Such as by offering to protect a murderer?" 

The commander's mouth opens, as if he were about to say something. Closes, almost too tightly. Then he tries again. "Why did you kill those men?" 

"You believe me now that I did?" 

The Hebrew has to wait before the answer comes. 

"I believe in you, Aaron. I couldn't tell you why, but I do. If you insisted to me that you had not laid a finger on them, I'd accept it. And if you say that you did, then I'll embrace that as the truth and trust that you must have had a reason. Please, Aaron." The Israelite remembers what it felt like to have those words warmly exhaled into his ear. "Would you tell me why?" 

Aaron's mouth twists with bitterness. "If I tell you, then you would never respect me and not for the lives I had taken, but for the one I did not. My own. You have served in the Roman army for a long time, have you not? Then you must believe in that too, in an honorable soldier's death." 

He gets a small, pensive head nod. "Yes, dignity in fighting to death. We're trained to seek and prize it above all else. To greet dying as it should be, with a smile. The Israelites, from what I've heard, you sanctify life beyond all other things?" 

"Because it is sacred. A value unto itself. There is no religious law we cannot bend for the sake of maintaining life. I've been told this was understood to be proof of the cowardly nature that my people possess. A thinking that if we do not see death as the ultimate honor, then who knows what dishonorable things we are capable of in order to avoid it?" 

The commander makes a small choking sound. "Anyone saying that has never seen you fight." After a beat, he adds almost conspiratorially, "Their loss." 

Aaron feels the ghost of a smile, but pushes it down. "I am a Hebrew. I was not trained as a Roman soldier. I see it differently. There is no honor in death. All it causes is heartache for those who remain behind. In Judea, when our revolt was drawing to its end, I was not looking for a hill to die upon. There were those who needed me..." 

There are many truths wrestling inside of the fighter, alongside a reluctance to comply with the notion that the sharing of one painful past deserves in response the reveal of another. He does possess the capacity to lie most convincingly if his survival would require it. Life above all. The Romans would accept none of his Jewish beliefs. Neither did most nations he'd learnt of. The commander's Germanic tribe probably exalted fighting to the bitter end as well. 

Yet, this man was not Roman. He spoke no words of judgment. The Hebrew's survival was not under any immediate threat by the commander's hands. And be the reason whatever it may be, Aaron has already chosen not to lie to him. All of that still shouldn't mean a confession. And yet. "You've not served in Judea yourself during our revolt, have you?" 

"No." 

"Well, the first _legionarius_ I killed did. He was drunk and a guest at one of the orgies held at Laurentius' _ludus_. He was just inebriated enough that he thought he could drag me away from the masses and impose himself on the Hebrew slave. That he could make some remarks while at it about the ease with which my people succumbed to his sword while he was doing his part in quelching the uprising in Jerusalem." It's through half gritted teeth that Aaron speaks, but he doesn't relent. 

"Your capital?" 

"And the city in which I had spent all of my childhood and youth. I remember how glorious it was. The way that the sun touched the stones of our houses? It made them shine with the softest of lights. That sight never failed to lift my spirits. I carried it with me to the battleground. I was sent to fight in the Galilee during the revolt and my unit was already forced to surrender by the time the Roman soldiers laid siege to Jerusalem. Before they burned it down to the ground and let all of their violence loose on the city's population. I wasn't there... when the soldiers got to our home. I wasn't there to protect them..." 

"Your family..." 

"My mother and younger sister." Aaron stops for air. "They're the ones I allowed myself to be captured for. And only then I heard. I was told all of the details. The soldiers who kept us locked up in wait for their decree of our fate enjoyed sharing the stories of what had been done to our families. Before we were sold off to be fodder for entertainment in the arena." 

He just has to continue breathing. 

"All we wanted of Rome was not even an end to our subjugation. We fought for our religious freedom and some economic consideration. To be allowed to exercise our faith in peace, to not be burdened with impossible taxes that were destroying our day to day lives. And now my mother and sister are slain. My city is in ruins. The Temple that we worshipped our God in is no more, tens of thousands of my people have been killed and the Romans you serve are constructing in their capital a new _amphitheatrum_ , funded with the property they had stolen from our Temple and with the sweat of our captured men. And that _legionarius_ ," the title is practically spat out with disdain, "thought he could claim my body while defiling the memory of my people. He reckoned I would not be strong enough to be able to defend myself. And he paid the full price for his mistake." 

"Is that acceptable, if your people hold life itself in such high regard?" 

"It is the only way that it is acceptable. You can only take a life if it is in order to defend another from being ruined. That gave me a purpose again. I may not be able to do anything else for my mother and sister, but I could avenge their deaths if I find more of these Roman soldiers who had served in Judea. If I allow them to attack me, whether for their lustful purposes or simply for their hatred of who I am, then I only take their lives to defend my own. That way, whatever befalls them is of their own choosing." 

"And," the commander completes the picture, "when you were certain I had figured your involvement out, you didn't lay the same trap at my door because I was not one of the brutes who abused your people." Aaron's silence is confirmation enough. "But why go looking for them when the danger might have been realized? What if they had hurt you? What if when they attacked you, they would have succeeded in killing you?" 

Aaron lets his chest fill before he attempts to answer. "What was done to my family... I think of how they must have died, in agonizing terror. I should have been there to stop it. I should have been able to protect them." He bites into his lip until he can taste blood. "My faith may value my life, but after I have failed them, I no longer do." 

Aaron notices suddenly a presence by him as a hand is laid on his shoulder, comforting. 

He looks up to see the other man's eyes reflecting pools of understanding and compassion. It's almost too hard to bear it. He wants to say something. He knows not what. 

They both appear to be in the same conundrum, when finally the man says, "Aaron, please. Come back with me and let me protect you. If this sense of justice is what helps you go on, I promise I will help you find a way to carry it out." 

Aaron doesn't mean to agree, but finds himself nodding in confirmation, a tiny motion at first. But before he knows it, it grows. 

He lets out a long breath. 

The commander rises and holds out his hand. Aaron takes it and lets himself be helped to his feet. "Wait," he adds, "I don't know by what name to call you?" 

The man smiles at him widely, bright as the sun. 

"I'm Robert."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fugitivus - fugitive  
> Concubinus - male concubine, a bedmate with semi-recognized status as a cherished slave  
> Amphitheatrum - open air circular or oval building designed for public shows
> 
> * On the show Spartacus, in every season, there was at least one character named Tiberius. Robert being named that is a nod to this little tradition of the show. 
> 
> * When a free Roman took a slave to be his _concubinus_ , while the relationship was not an official one, nor was it exclusive and it usually (though not always) ended with the free man's marriage to a woman, the _concubinus_ was perceived as elevated above the other slaves and could even attend public events as the concubine of the free man. A Roman could also take a female concubine, who had a more protected status because while her male counterpart was typically a slave, the _concubina_ was usually a free woman. 
> 
> * When I was doing my research on the way desire consummated between two men would have been treated in the world of the Germanic tribes, I discovered that for the period relevant to this story, we don't actually have a certain answer. The earliest records we have for this subject were written by a Roman named Tacitus, whose view of those tribes might have been tainted by cultural bias. Still, because there is some evidence to suggest that he might have been right about the punishment reserved for men who were sexually active with other men, but mostly because it served the dramatic purposes of this fic, I went with his account. 
> 
> * The amphitheatre that Aaron is referring to in the Roman capital is the building widely known today as the Colosseum. Its original name is the Flavian Amphitheatre ( _Amphitheatrum Flavium_ ) as it was built by Caesars of the Flavian dynasty in an attempt to win over the Roman public to their side after the catastrophic rule of Nero. In order to fund the building, they really did ransack the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem and they used some of the captured Hebrews among the slave builders on that construction. Right next to the Colosseum you can still find today the Titus Arch, which depicts the ransacking of the Temple and the Jews being delivered to captivity. Descriptions of how the population of Jerusalem was treated after the besieged city fell are terrible enough that I'm not gonna repeat them, but that event remains a trauma, still mentioned and mourned annually in Jewish tradition. 
> 
> * The men Aaron mentions as an explanation of Jewish tradition's position on same-sex love during those ancient times are David and Jonathan. You can find on my Tumblr blog [a summary](http://matan4il.tumblr.com/post/170870965251/david-and-jonathan) of my paper regarding them (trust me, it *is* the short version). In terms of whether the Israelites accepted homosexuality in biblical times, take the relevant verses from the Bible in the correct social context of the time, don't look at them through the prism of later mistranslations and retrospective projections, and there seems to be no indication that the Hebrews back then saw same-sex intercourse as immoral or forbidden, outside the case of ritualized male prostitution (forbidden since like the female kind, it was seen as idol worship).


	8. Chapter 8

The sands of the training pit are different. Not as seductive as those of the arena, not as promising and not as tainted. They've always offered Aaron a place to lose himself in the mindlessness of physical effort. He takes his position and squares off his shoulders as he holds up his _gladius_. His return with Robert to the _ludus_ is uneventful, if that. A slave being used by free Romans as a source of corporal pleasure, then brought back, is hardly anything out of the ordinary.

Yet, this return is also somewhat disorienting. It's weird to have to process that he's back to a place he already thought he'd left behind for good. To drills he thought he'd never have to go through again. There's a push and pull between a wish to surrender to the sense of familiarity looking to flood him with relief and between the frustration of wondering whether he's not stuck in the same spot, only thinking he's progressing forward. Much like a mule or a donkey are fooled when they're in actuality roped to a millstone. 

Frank comes over soon after Aaron has resumed his training. It's to be expected ever since the Gaul had decided the Hebrew gladiator is one to watch out for. 

"Good, I am glad to see you returning to your exercises so quickly. Working on the agility ones, are you?" Frank doesn't express it explicitly, but what Aaron hears is the weight that has been lifted from the _doctor_ 's shoulders as he looked over the Judean. Plenty of slaves are also abused as they are taken advantage of, sometimes too broken to be able to fight for weeks after the fact. Frank must have feared this would be the case if a _praeceptorem_ took a common slave, and of a particular lowly origin. Aaron's not particularly moved by the Gaul's caring. It's not his own wellbeing that's the main cause for concern here. 

Frank quickly moves on to inspect other trainers and their guidance of fighters around the training pit. Aaron concentrates on his moves and relishes the chance to forget everything for the next few hours. The underlining upset that in the gladiatorial world, you only matter as far as you can continue to defeat your opponents in the arena. The feeling of uncertainty that overtook him earlier regarding whatever's to come next. The brightness of the commander's smile as he shared his real name. 

It's nearing dusk when Aaron picks up a rarer sight, one of the house slaves searching for Frank throughout the grounds of the pit to deliver a message. It must be one from Laurentius, who normally tries to have as little to do with his gladiators as possible. That's what the _doctores_ are there for. The Hebrew registers that the Gaul is looking at him and an uneasy feeling takes hold of him. Sure enough, the trainer walks over to him and the little cough he lets out first tells the gladiator he's not mistaken to be nervous about this. 

"We're to report to _Dominus_ ," he starts and takes a small pause. "Whatever the matter may be, you're probably going to be expected to hold your tongue. You will not speak unless addressed directly and asked to respond. I know this will be difficult for you, so let me stress this. I will be there. I will speak for you. As hard as it may be, you must put your faith in me because if you have an outburst, it will not lead to any favorable consequences. Is this understood?" 

Aaron resents this. The Gaul's intention is clearly a benevolent one, but the idea he must hold his tongue whatever comes his way makes the Judean's blood rage. Self-preservation dictates he agree to it and it's going to be tough for him, but he nods wordlessly. 

The main house, the center of Laurentius' mansion, is more glorious and intricately decorated than any buildings Aaron has ever set foot in, save one. This is no time to recall destroyed shrines of worship, so he pushes the memory down and concentrates on keeping his calm. He and Frank are taken into a great hall in which they are to await their audience with the master of the house. The floor and most columns around the room are white marble, cool to the touch if one were to lean against one of the latter and cold to look at, too. The two men are made to wait there long enough and thankfully, the Gaul makes no attempt to conduct any small talk with his fighter. He might be running through different possible scenarios in his mind. Let him. Aaron has a better chance of maintaining his level-headedness if he keeps his mind blank. 

The doors finally open to an adjacent reception chamber. It's extravagant, marble in red and pink hues, shiny surfaces adorning the edges of most of the furniture, and only one seat on an elevated platform to stand before. The master's spot. It's empty. They are to remain waiting still. 

It's not long before Laurentius walks in. This is the closest Aaron has been to the man who had ownership of his body and life. The man was more pompous in appearance than impressive, but his desperate shots at the latter made the Hebrew see him more as pathetic than anything else. 

The Roman took his seat and his time assessing the Judean gladiator. After a few long moments, he rises and comes up to Aaron, to inspect him from up close and from several sides. That ends up lasting an additional few, even longer minutes. When he's done, Laurentius sits down again. He rubs his thumb mindlessly without taking his eyes off the Hebrew at any point. 

"Yes," he drawls out with an air of indifference to the presence of others in the room, like he was commenting only to himself on the subject of his appraisal, "I can see why Tiberius would want this for a plaything." Without glancing at his trainer's direction, Aaron can hear Frank taking one step closer. It draws Laurentius' attention as well. "Oh, _Doctor_. Tell me, how is it doing in its bouts?" The small head gesture towards Aaron makes his reference clear. 

" _Dominus_ , he is doing very well." Frank doesn't put any emphasis on the pronoun that he uses, but it's there all the same. "One of our finer fighters, in fact, if a little rough around the edges. We're working to refine that." 

"Yes," Laurentius repeats, but his tone sounds anything but positive to Aaron. "Regular bouts only so far, I take it?" 

"Oh no, _Dominus_ , he's fought in a two on one combat as well. He didn't win that bout, but he battled valiantly given it's not his assigned fighting style." 

"I see. Lost and still standing. That is quite interesting." There's an ominous pause that makes Aaron's heart race more than he would have liked. "Well, let's see just how entertaining it can be, shall we? A _venatio_ would be the natural progression, I'd expect. I look forward to seeing it in action." Laurentius gets to his feet once more and turns to leave, implying the audience he was holding is over. 

Aaron's stunned. Frank has a similar reaction going by his sudden intake of air. 

" _Dominus_ ," the Gaul says, though the implication behind the last sentence from the _lanista_ was that the decision has been made and there was no room to argue it, "he has not been instructed in the ways of a _venator_. He will not survive such a match!" 

Laurentius turns back to him with an expression of surprise and discontent. In all the time Aaron has been at the _ludus_ , he has never heard anything about this trainer ever stepping out of line. "Did I give an impression that this was a discussion?" 

Frank lowers his head. "No, _Dominus_." 

"Indeed," Laurentius stresses out the two syllables separately in an implicit reminder of power and threat. "I expect this would be all." 

The motion by Aaron's side is an indication that the Gaul has to restrain himself from trying again to dissuade their master. He succeeds and Laurentius exits, leaving them on their own for the gladiator to be returned to his quarters by his trainer. That's carried out efficiently and without any exchange between the two men. But before Frank leaves his fighter for the night, he mutters, "I'm... I'm sorry," and only then he goes. 

The cell Aaron's left in is the standard one for gladiators. Small, only enough for one or two men at a time. He can consider himself lucky, after a fashion. For the time being, since his last roommate demanded to be moved out, he's been left alone in the cell. There are perks to being an unfriendly pain in the backside of the _doctores_. Even with this luxury, the cells they're placed in are a space of imprisonment, really. Which is why those adorned with laurel wreaths, the victors at the day's games, get to enjoy their food, wine and indulge their sexual appetites in the open air of the courtyard. Once one of them enters their assigned cell, they are reminded by their surroundings of how little freedom they truly have. Their only chance of being moved to a more spacious cell is if they survive long enough to become trainers themselves. The Judean gladiator is particularly aware of the true message conveyed through his confines tonight. He doesn't even have the right to say no to being mauled by a predatory animal in the arena. 

This is not what he agreed to return for and like it or not, he's questioning his choice. 

He does consider momentarily trying to escape again. But instantly there's no doubt in his mind that it's futile. Robert will just find him and figure out a way to bring him back. Aaron loathes the knowledge that there's no escaping this _ludus_. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

He takes off most of the items in his outfit and slips into the undergarments provided to them for sleep. His is a short-sleeved, knee length _tunica_ and underneath it, a _subligaculum_ wrapped around his waist. In this one regard, Aaron prefers being a gladiator in the Roman empire than one of its free men, as the latter would simply slip on their daily clothes over these items of nocturnal clothing in the morning and go about their day. Having to take his off each day for the sake of his gladiatorial outfit was considered an annoyance by most, but it was closer to his people's customs, distant and foreign as they might seem in this society. A wave of longing for the impossible, for the irrevocably lost, washes over him. Sentiments he normally doesn't allow onto the surface. 

He misses his mother's chidings and how it was actually another form of expressing her caring. He longs for his sister's laughter, especially when it was at a prank she had pulled at his expense and he would promise her he'd retaliate while secretly grinning at her joy. Misses the sunrise over the Judean mountains. Misses his best friend, Adam, and how dumb and young they got to be together. He misses and longs and lets himself drown in it as he sprawls out on the bed in a cell whose walls he thought he had escaped. It wasn't dying that Aaron minded, it was the terrible futility of the way Laurentius is going to have him indirectly executed. It won't be long before the next _venatio_. He expects he would not have enough time to look for another one of those Roman soldiers whose service in Judea spelled out its destruction. The ones under Robert's command, residing for now on the _ludus_ grounds, had not taken part in squashing the Hebrews' Great Revolt. Aaron had already checked. He won't be able to find the ones who did, let them attack him and use that to avenge the people whose images are overflooding his mind. 

Eyes closed, he's somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, the two blurring and melting into one because there is no difference. He misses and misses all who are forever gone in either state. There's a knock on the door, but who knows if the door is not a dream. It repeats, louder now, and this time Aaron is sure of its reality. He jumps up and off the bed, eyes wide open, picking up his dagger from the pile of items he discarded to the side earlier, ready to tackle on whoever's coming in through the entrance. When he opens it, he's surprised to see Robert standing there. 

"Aaron," the man says with a smile, like he too has been missing something and in this dank cell, he believes he's found it. 

The Hebrew fighter moves aside to let him in. While the commander of a Roman _legionari_ unit would be free to do as he pleases, for the most part, it is still not a good idea for the man to be spotted in the Judean's cell. 

"You are alright?" Robert continues to smile and it both angers and saddens Aaron. The one person who, for whatever reason, cares what will happen to the Jewish slave and it's the same man's own damn fault, the news that the Israelite will now have to break to him. 

"I am fine... if one does not mind dying before their time. I am not long for this world, as it turns out." He doesn't mean to feel satisfaction at the sight of how quickly the smile is gone from Robert's face. 

"What are you saying?" 

It tugs at Aaron's heart, the genuine concern he hears. Maybe even more than it inflames him. 

"Your little game with the _lanista_ , you can be proud of yourself. You've achieved true passion on the part of the old man. True jealousy as well. He's decided I'm to participate in the upcoming _venatio_." 

Robert visibly pales. There's no mistaking what it means for Aaron's fate. 

"He can't..." the commander's voice betrays his incredulousness as much as what he says. 

"Most certainly, he can." 

"He wouldn't..." 

"Wouldn't any _dominus_ do exactly as they please?" 

"On my account?" 

"He's never been interested in me before he learned you were." 

Aaron goes back to lying on his bed. He's suddenly so very tired. Robert follows him and sits on it by his side. 

"I'm sorry." It's no more than a whisper. Sorry. The Gaul _doctor_ was sorry, too. These men who are not truly familiar with him or what was taken away from him. 

"Don't be. I'm certain it was worthwhile for your goals." 

There's cruel satisfaction in seeing the hurt in Robert's eyes. Aaron is going to die. His revenge is going to die with him, all too soon, far too unfulfilled. His memories will perish, too. Good. If that is how things unfold, someone should be hurt over it. 

"This was never what I wanted. Aaron, I promised I would protect you," Robert hesitantly touches the side of the Hebrew's face. "I'm going to find a way to keep my word. If I have to sacrifice to every god out there, I will." His pitch further drops. "Please," he begs with his eyes too, "you have to believe me." 

Any satisfaction felt a moment ago is all drained away from the Israelite's body, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He might have some trust in the honesty of the man's intentions, but what good will that do? 

Robert's eyes fall to Aaron's lips. That gaze, it makes reality and dream feel like they're blending together again. Then the man leans in. 

Aaron stops him right before they connect. "You shouldn't kiss the dead. It will bring upon you nothing but bad fortune." 

The commander looks stunned at first. Not used to rejection, surely. Then his appearance turns to one of determination. 

"It's understandable that you don't believe me. But by all the gods, by everything above the netherworld, I'll show you." 

And with that, he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venatio - animal gladiatorial battle  
> Venator - a gladiator skilled with a spear specifically to fight animals in the arena  
> Subligaculum - loincloth
> 
> * Something I decided not to touch upon in the fic but thought was interesting is that the cleanliness habits referenced by Aaron were another cause for antisemitism in the pre-modern world. As the Jews had religious customs that included washing their hands and bodies regularly back when that was not common, it meant their rates of perishing from disease were lower than those of non-Jews. For those who had noticed that fact, they thought this could only be explained by the idea that the Jews must have dabbled in black magic, sold their souls to the devil, or similar concept, in order to get this immunity. 
> 
> * Not only were the bedchambers of gladiators built like prison cells, but the fact that all _ludi_ had walls around them and only one main gate under constant supervision meant that these truly served as places of incarceration for the slaves living and training there.


	9. Chapter 9

Just as the drums are played with the gladiators' entrance to the arena, there are drums beating in Aaron's blood this morning. Sleep is a curer of many ailments and it heals something in him over the course of a dreamless night. Once he awakens, the Judean begins this day as he has been taught to start each one for as long as he could remember. By giving thanks for his life. He is, in fact, alive, much as he didn't feel like it the previous night. Rays of light stream into his cell softly, then flow out again just as gently through small cracks in the wooden floor, taking away with them more of yesterday's weight.

What the fire cannot burn, he reminds himself, it hardens. And Aaron has walked through the fire, not only that of the Roman arena. He walked through one that has destroyed all he had cherished, that has taken everything away from him, that should have abolished him as well, but he has come out the other side. Harder than that you cannot get and none of them can now easily bend him to their will. None can break him. Not even those with the most power over his fate and most desire to annihilate him. That's what they hate about him. That's what they fear. He blinks. 

He wants to see Robert. 

The longer the day extends without a sign of the commander, the more he wants that. The training only makes it more difficult to bear the passage of time. Frank has changed Aaron's drills, exchanged his sword for the spear he would use for whatever beast he'll be pitted against. It's a gamble, there are many options in terms of which kind of animal they may send him out against in the arena and what is the best spear he should use to defeat it. Frank has chosen the _hasta_ for him, promising the Hebrew that he would be able to master it quite quickly, given that thrusting would be closer to using the _gladius_ or the _pugio_ than a spear intended for throwing. It's a kind gesture on the Gaul's part, making out as if the Israelite gladiator has a shot at victory. Aaron humors the _doctor_. He throws his body fully into the training, unbothered. His mind is elsewhere. 

He's keen to see Robert for more reasons than one. An unease left from last night drives him. A sense he should apologize. The commander had no intentions of placing him in danger. Aaron is aware of this, much as it was also true that he wouldn't have been in this particular predicament had it not been for the _praeceptorem_. Whatever the case might be, his own words to the soldier were unfair, meant to cause hurt because he was hurting. He's troubled by the notion that this is how he'll part ways with the last person to properly speak to him and he sincerely wants to correct that. 

Aaron pushes forward the training spear through the air and plunges it into an invisible beast. He wants to see Robert. The thought of seeing him makes the Hebrew feel less alone. 

Wanting is not akin to the liberty of pursuing that which one wants. The endless day serves as a reminder for Aaron and by nightfall, it's all he can do to not grunt in anger and go in search of a fight with just about anyone who might come his way. He keeps his restraint with most of the men he passes on his way to his own cell, but there is a close call with Il Rosso. Of course the Roman gladiator would be about precisely when the Judean should stay far away from him. Frank is, uncharacteristically for the way he's always kept his distance from the gladiators he's in charge of, walking around and speaking to the men. Before the Hebrew fighter has the chance to let his rage loose on the Roman, the Gaul trainer is there, calmly addressing him. 

"There you are." Something about it does ground Aaron, enough to pull him away from the punch he wanted to land on Il Rosso for no other reason but to wipe out the Roman's smirk. "I meant to tell you regarding the drills you performed today..." 

It does not, however, make him more willing to talk to the _doctor_. "Not interested," he interrupts and walks away. He hopes the Gaul won't try to follow. Mercifully, he doesn't. 

Aaron makes it to his cell. For the first time that he can recall, he's glad to be in there. Without other men surrounding him, he can try to reflect on the many different feelings that coursed in his veins throughout that day. On how his spirits were lifted in the morning despite the way he did not believe today that he would survive the _venatio_ he would have to compete in within a few days any more than he had any faith in that the night before. On how he wanted to see the commander more than he cared to admit even to the man himself. On how he was not only upset by the end of the day that he hadn't, but was also distressed at this very moment over this upset that the man's absence had caused him. He should not have been feeling so. Especially not since the _legionarius_ might have promised what he did right after Aaron shared his story, but the day's duties must have brought him back to reality. It was obvious he'd all but forgotten about the Hebrew gladiator and gone on with his routine as if nothing has passed between them that day. 

Because to the soldier, nothing did. Aaron tries to accept that and there's a sense of bile rising in him. It's not right. It shouldn't be like that, for him to be the only one of the two to see the previous day's interactions as significant. A sudden need takes him, to go find the commander in the Roman soldiers encampment on Laurentius' land. To get some answers. To yell at the real source of the anger that has been building up in the Judean over so many hours. 

He's about to storm out, when there's a knock at the door, followed by Robert not waiting for a response and barging in, unintentionally bringing them face to face. 

Something in Aaron's chest unwinds immediately at the sight, at the urgency of the action, while something else tenses up. 

"Where have you been?" he shoots out. 

That is not what he meant to say. He definitely did not plan on sounding so demanding. Worse yet, this is precisely what he should not let on. He feels exposed. 

Robert pays no mind to his crass manners. The commander closes the door behind himself carefully and comes to stand closer, his tone low as if he's fearful they might be overheard. 

"I made several attempts to stop Laurentius' decision from being carried out as is. Finding the animals handler took a long while. But bribing him to claim he cannot provide any beasts for the upcoming _venatio_ and buy us time didn't work. He claimed the amount of money he needed for this to make it worth the lost revenue is a sum far greater than what a commander in the Roman army makes. I went on to inquire with a few people whether there was any way I could sneak anything to you, into the arena. Such as a _gladius_ , to help you in the match. But even if there is, everyone's too afraid that you having help would be conspicuous and lead back to them. They're all too scared of your _lanista_ and his daughter to risk it. Which meant I had to go to the source..." 

"Laurentius." 

"He was completely drunk. I was desperate. I tried offering anything he wanted of me if he would just change his decision. He wasn't interested. So I ended up suggesting I would overlook all rules of propriety. I offered him myself." 

The nausea knocks the air out of Aaron's lungs. "And?" His voice isn't just lowered. It sounds like he actually is suffocating. 

"Oh, he wanted to. There is no doubt about that. But he was too intoxicated. He had drunk so much, he could not wield his soft sword." 

Aaron lets out a puff of laughter in both amusement and relief. 

"It must be the influence of the wine," he adds. "I've heard a fair share of stories going around about what he's done with some of the house slave boys." 

The laughter and comment might not have been the reaction the commander had anticipated, but he rolls with it. "Is that so? Here I was, thinking you might suggest it must have been the explanation because otherwise, I am impossible to say no to." 

Robert says that smiling and when Aaron takes it in, he doesn't catch himself in time. "I'm glad he couldn't." 

The other man looks at him with wonder in his eyes. "Careful, Aaron. Those sound like the words of someone who cares." 

Aaron shrugs as he looks up at the wooden ceiling. "They are mine." 

Robert coughs awkwardly, like something got caught in his throat. "You know I would never... Aaron, my assistance is offered without any conditions." 

All of the day's earlier distress is gone. "I've figured as much." 

Robert is the first to snap out of their more private exchange and return them to the matter at hand. "It's not much help. I have to beg for your forgiveness. The way he went on after that... He was furious. I didn't mean to, but I might have made it worse." 

Aaron nods thoughtfully as he casts his gaze down. "I'm the one who needs to apologize." He stares back up. "I wasn't right to blame you. Laurentius is the only one responsible for his actions. As for what that old man has in mind, I expect he wasn't counting on how skilled an instructor Frank is with the _hasta_. You have nothing to worry about. I'm going to win that _venatio_. I promise you that." He has to make sure Robert doesn't carry on like this, going overboard, risking himself to save a condemned man. If Laurentius had been able to take the commander up on his offer, that would have been bad enough. If it had somehow gotten out, that could be even worse. Two free men lying together was considered bad enough. Only male prostitutes and slaves had to contend with their bodies being penetrated. For a free man to submit to that willingly was viewed as a _stuprum_. If that free man happened to be a soldier, his submission symbolized defeat, making his a worse crime and requiring a particularly harsh punishment. His fate would therefore have been to undergo _fustuarium_. 

"Are you sure?" The man is without a doubt in need of the hope Aaron can provide him. 

"Robert, I'm sure." 

The man's eyes light up. 

"That's the first time you called me by my name." 

"Is it?" 

Robert slowly moves in closer. He does it so gradually, as if asking permission to share breath. And they do. Before Aaron fully grasps it, he wants. He wants with his entire being. 

He lays a hand on Robert's _cuirass_ , lets himself think of how the metal covers the man's chest. Of what the skin underneath must feel like when the breastplate is removed. He applies some pressure gently. Just enough for the meaning of the gesture to be easily recognizable. 

Robert gets it and backs off, confusion replacing the light that earlier shone in his eyes. 

"I do have to ask you for something," Aaron is going to have to word his request carefully. That morning, he woke up embracing the life he had left, what he could still do with it. He may not be able to continue avenging the people of his broken nation, but others may be able to do it in his wake. He only has to pass the message along, the idea that gave him solace. If he can ask the commander for that in the right way, then maybe he could get a soldier serving the Romans to help deliver the message. 

"Anything for you." 

Aaron hesitates, but it's brief. "There aren't many Hebrew fighters left in the gladiatorial _ludi_ in this town. I was always alone in this one and there are but a handful left in others. Robert, you can find them. I am going to win this fight, but in case I don't... as unlikely as that may be, I'd like them to know I was here. I'd want to be remembered. To have... the right rituals carried out for me. That's why it's crucial that you find them, tell them about me. Tell them... everything. Even my crimes. They have to be aware of it all if they are to pray for our god to have mercy on my soul." 

"Don't talk like that." 

"Robert, please. You have to..." 

"No! Aaron, you must live. There is no other option. I will do nothing that might mean you will give anything less than your all to win." 

"Robert, I'm asking y..." 

"I said **no**!" 

Aaron's heart aches because he knows full well what the request means and how hard it is to entertain the notion of someone being taken away when you care for them. Yet weirdly, his aching heart also grows in his chest so much, to where it's about to burst out of his chest. It has been years since anyone cared about his well being for any other reason but for the purpose of profit in the gladiatorial fighting business. 

He should drive home his point. Make sure his death is not the end to his revenge. No, he should reassure Robert there is nothing to be afraid of when it comes to Aaron in the arena. Soothe out the hurt he hadn't intended on causing the man. His mind keeps going in circles between the two things. Whatever he ought to do, he ends up saying nothing. 

"I think I should go," the commander mutters before he has made up his mind. 

Aaron nods in agreement and looks curiously down as the warmth of Robert's presence slowly, but surely, evaporates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hasta - relatively shorter spear, meant for thrusting  
> Fustuarium - clubbing to death
> 
> * Fustuarium was a cruel death, but I should stress that it was not limited to punishing soldiers for just one type of crime. In a same-sex context, this would have only been used for a soldier who allowed himself to be penetrated. It's also not the only kind of extremely vicious punishment they used for soldiers and citizens in ancient Rome. So this wasn't an objection to same-sex intercourse between men in and of itself, it was grounded in a bigger social conceptualization. Since soldiers pledged their entire lives to the army (Robert mentions in this fic no marriages for soldiers as one aspect of that), if one of them was seen as no longer fit to be a soldier, the penalty was death because they had forfeited any other purpose to their lives once they had pledged those to the army. 
> 
> * I thought I'd point out that it took a while for gladiatorial games to catch on as a popular form of entertainment for the crowds, so at their start they were thrown more rarely. By the period the fic is set in, they had accumulated so much popularity that they were held often enough and the gladiators wouldn't get that much time off between one _munus_ and the next. A few days would be a pretty common break between one round of games and the one following it, which is why that is Aaron's assumption here.


	10. Chapter 10

His sleep is not the same. Aaron's barely dreamt since he started his training as a gladiator, for which he is thankful. After being taken into captivity and hearing the details of Jerusalem's destruction and of its people's murder from the Roman soldiers, his sleep was plagued by nightmares. The physical and mental exhaustion caused by the gladiatorial exercises had rendered him too drained at night for anything but a deep, dreamless sleep, one of the few things he had found some comfort in. But over the past few nights he's started dreaming again. Of moonlit forests and of far removed golden sands. Of one particular smile.

He wakes up from that to the memory of Robert's anger when they last met. He tries to shake that off along with the cobwebs of night as he washes his hands and face. When he had just come across the common corporal customs in the Roman world, he could not comprehend how they went about their day without washing up in some similar manner. When he had been brought to the _ludus_ as the first Hebrew fighter ever there, they frowned at his request to have a water bowl in his cell. In the end, what decided matters was that it was not believed he would survive there long enough for the bowl to be of real concern. That suggested to him that currently, they were the same, that bowl and him. Both of them given facts, simply existing, in spite of all wishes to the contrary from those around them. By noon, this would only continue to be true for the inanimate object. 

Aaron wants to see Robert, but he doesn't expect to. Maybe never again in close quarters. Their last conversation might have finally convinced the commander it's the wiser choice to keep away from Aaron. From the inevitable pain of caring for a slave, for someone who is denied any choice in what happens to them. During his drills, the Hebrew fighter still couldn't stop his eyes from wandering every so often to the Roman soldiers' encampment. He'd seen Robert come and go. Not as much as he would have liked to. The man is probably staying away from Laurentius' mansion as much as is possible, away from both its master and from the Judean slave living there. He can't be faulted for that. Which doesn't mean Aaron is not disappointed every time he has to turn his look from there without having seen the familiar bright hair gleaming in the sun. On one or two occasions, he had come close enough to hear those Roman soldiers refer to their commander as Tiberius. That shouldn't have mattered in the least, but he'd noticed something swell in his chest at the recognition he knows their own brother in arms better than they do. 

It's Friday when the gladiators are called to the wooden post at the center of the courtyard to be told, as they always were before a _munus_ , how they would be matched up. Aaron learns he would fight in the _venatio_ the next morning. He's going to die on a Saturday. On the Jewish day of rest. On a holy day. 

He spends his last evening watching the Roman soldiers' tents. Was Robert even aware that the date had been set? But when Aaron considered going over there, sneaking his way in and finding the commander's dwellings, he recalls their last talk. What does he have to offer the man but more pain? He must keep his distance. All he can hope for is that after he's gone, Robert would remember his request and decide to fulfill it after all. 

He goes to sleep and dreams of nothing or everything. He's not sure when he wakes up. Only that the image of Robert's eyes is stuck in his mind. Aaron's never going to see that sight again and before he climbs out of bed, he inwardly takes his farewell from that. From the beauty of Judea and the landscapes of his happy childhood. From the memory of his mother and sister before everything was laid to ruin. He had loved fiercely and he has to trust that this would have some meaning in this world even after he is no more. 

* ~ *

Standing before the gates leading to the arena, Aaron is resigned to what will follow. He holds the _hasta_ casually in his hand and listens to the drums. Wonders what beast he'll be mauled by. Hopes it will be over soon. At the same time, it's all coming from afar, as if those were the experiences of someone else. 

When he steps onto the familiar sands, it focuses him, much to his surprise. It's not supposed to, there is no real fight to concentrate on, nothing for him to do but accept his fate. Some men, upon learning that their fate would be _damnatio ad bestias_ would take their own lives before the match even began. Aaron had even seen that happen once with his own eyes. But this is not the way of his people, so that was the one thing he could do. Not allow Laurentius and his ilk bend him into breaking with Hebrew tradition. Despite how some of the gladiators reminded him, Il Rosso chief among them and especially gleeful about it, how admired it was to make that choice if you were one of those condemned warriors. 

Aaron lets his eyes drift across the chanting faces in the crowd. What a strange lot these people are. How they cheer for blood. He's never been able to reconcile himself to the idea of that which entertains them. Nevermind, none of that matters at this point. He lets the weight of it roll off his shoulders along with the roaring thunder of drums and the public's shouts. 

But then Aaron catches a glimpse of it and he hears nothing anymore. The sun shining in Robert's hair. The facial features right beneath the golden strands sharpen in Aaron's sight and he can read the tension there. The enormity of fear. 

His grip on the _hasta_ tightens of its own accord. 

A great noise that follows draws his attention back into the arena. The tiger meant to kill him has been brought in and let loose. The animal roars, just like the crowd. That's not even directed at the gladiator. It's anger, apprehension and frustration. It's pain as the beast's handlers are poking its side in order to get it to turn to the intended target and attack. It will work, soon enough the tiger will align itself with the wishes of the _bestiarii_. Aaron raises his _hasta_. 

Holding tightly to it, he lunges forward. It's a mad dash, running towards the tiger when that is the last thing he should be doing. It's surprising enough that he can hear some gasps from the audience, while one man bursts out in laughter. Like many of the spectators, he must be convinced Aaron had lost his mind and finds that too amusing not to laugh. The gladiator reaches the animal, which has turned to him ready to dart forward, and he jumps. To the side, at one of the handlers. Aaron uses the blunt side of the spearhead with as much precision as he can muster, to but scratch the man. It's a warning to all of them to keep away. The Hebrew fighter will have a better chance of surviving if the _bestiarii_ don't antagonize the beast. Continuing with the motion, he turns back to face the main threat and lets the head of the _hasta_ sink into the flesh of the animal before he pulls it back out. Not too deep, he holds on to Frank's instructions, unless it's the death blow being dealt, it has to be shallow enough for it to be possible to pull the weapon back out with as little effort as must be used and without losing a single beat. 

The tiger growls as Aaron releases the spear from its fleshy trap. There's blood that spurts out when he does and that's good. The beast is wounded first, there is a chance. But then there's the flash of fur as the tiger tries to jump him. It's perhaps the most terrifying sight Aaron had seen in his life. He's not sure what he has more, brain or luck. He'd assumed beforehand this is what the animal would do, so he started his movement away as soon as he began to draw out the _hasta_. But when he fully grasps that the beast has landed in the space occupied by him a mere split second ago, when his insides screams he has to keep moving, it doesn't seem like it's his wits that's getting him through this. 

Most people in the audience cheer while a few boo him. It concerns him not. In this event, they have no say in whether he will live. Only one man out there matters. 

He can't look for Robert, of course. Aaron and the tiger are caught in a deadly dance, moving around each other. The Judean fighter is more agile, but then he has to be. He's also been covering more distance altogether, constantly moving from one spot to the next, trying to jab at the predator pursuing him, before he retreats again, jumping away. He won't be able to keep this up for long. He is wounding the tiger almost every time he moves in, but there is a limit to how long he can do this without tiring himself too much. 

This is where a lot of fighters not trained for the _venatio_ get it wrong, Frank told him. They either overestimate their abilities against the beast sent in to hunt them down, or they realize the incomprehensible difference in the animal's prowess, its endurance, and the fear paralyzes them. But Aaron can't make such mistakes. He wants to live. He may not succeed, but he wants to see Robert and he desires life. He has to give this his all. 

He considers he may have the hang of it, the balance of unceasingly moving to avoid being captured by the beast, yet not doing it so often that he's too exhausted to go on effectively. He jumps at the animal once more, this stab he makes from the side, but he discovers that he's miscalculated something. He feels claws ripping through his upper left arm. Weirdly, it doesn't hurt, it's just a strange sensation. Like his arm isn't exactly his arm anymore. He can't tell what it was that he did wrong. Or maybe he never figured out anything to begin with and it was the animal all along allowing Aaron to sting it here and there, like a cat lets a mouse get closer. 

The tiger pounces. 

There is no way Aaron can avoid it. He falls. He always knew it would be a fall. It doesn't make sense that he would be able to taste in his mouth the blood from his arm wound, but he could have sworn that's exactly what was happening. _'And I chanced upon you,'_ Aaron can't help but remember the sacred text and its prophecy, _'and I saw you, laying in your own blood.'_ His wounded arm tingles and his head throbs terribly. He at least caught what was about to happen early enough that he succeeded in aiming his spear for the beast's front to land right on and the predator growls in agony. It rocks the Israelite's body all at once, the grip those powerful claws gain on him and the impact the _hasta_ sinking deeply in has on the tiger. It goes wild, probably half driven out of its mind with pain and the shock of possible death. Under its weight, the wooden handle of the spear sticking out of the animal's chest breaks off. _'And I told you: By your blood, live.'_ The Hebrew doesn't let go. The beast's leg muscles close on the gladiator's sides and trap him in a deadly embrace. Its claws dig into his flesh, but it's holding on to him rather than trying to tear him apart. It's through biting that the animal is desperately trying to finish Aaron off. It's going for the jugular. He's been shoving his arms back against the beast since the moment of contact, attempting to buy himself as much maneuvering room as he can through that, while pushing his shoulders up and forward to protect his throat and keep the tiger from getting to his neck at the angle it requires. The animal roars its disappointment, before it means to carry on. _'And I told you:'_ Aaron uses that brief interruption to thrust the broken handle up, with all the strength he has left, through the lower part of the tiger's jaw. _'By your blood, live.'_ It goes in. It goes all the way into the maw and the fighter won't stop pushing. The handle penetrates the beast's brain from below. The tiger's whole body goes slack. 

Aaron's does too. 

Not because he's convinced the beast is done with. He simply has nothing left. Too drained to move, he remains lying beneath the corpse of the predator he was meant to be prey to. When he let go of the remains of his spear, the animal's head dropped on top of him and as the Judean tries to move somewhat, he recognizes he's staring into the tiger's dead, wide open eye. 

"I'm sorry," Aaron whispers to the tiger in Hebrew, the language in which he used to communicate with his Canaan dog as a child. He's overcome with the grief of a reluctant victor and with acknowledgement of their shared lot. Aaron desires life, yes, but he didn't want this. The animal didn't deserve to be a pawn for the pleasure of these citizens of the Roman Empire. He doesn't deserve that either. _'Heal us, God, and we shall be healed,'_ he recites and hopes that the words hold truth. 

He ignores the rave chantings and calls from the enthused crowd that reach his consciousness. Instead, Aaron's head drops back in utter fatigue and he closes off his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damnatio ad bestias - condemnation to the beasts  
> Bestiarii - animal handlers in the arena
> 
> * Condemnation to the beasts could have been official, meaning being sent into the arena without any weapons at all against animals of prey, or unofficial, as in Aaron's case. In the former context, they would have to show the condemned man committed one out of a specific list of crimes (most famous among this is being a Christian, right up until the 4th century AD). Laurentius would have wanted to avoid this trouble, ergo Aaron was at least given a spear. 
> 
> * I keep referring to Aaron's lack of approval when it comes to the cleanliness of the Romans. Before them, only the Greeks in all of Europe had toilets (though let's not get into why the Roman toilets weren't the model for cleanliness either. It's really disgusting). They also developed public bathrooms (because it was too expensive and complicated to warm bath water in one's own home), so for that period and part of the world, the Romans would have been considered by themselves and those around them as extremely clean. Aaron's context would have been slightly different, however, because Jewish daily rituals would have included a higher standard of cleanliness than the Romans had. For example, in the Roman public baths, everyone bathed together, the healthy and the sick, with the water not being changed often enough and the former would catch the sicknesses of the latter. In comparison, Jewish custom dictated for the sick to bathe in "living water", meaning in a spring, where the water constantly naturally changes and there is no risk of contamination. 
> 
> * Canaan dogs are awesome, gorgeous guard dogs that were the companions of the ancient Israelites. When the Jews' homeland was destroyed and they were expelled, those dogs were left behind. They mostly went wild, though at some point, Bedouins started adopting them to herd their sheep. Under the Bedouins, the dogs almost all mixed with the other races the Bedouins were wandering around with. Since the 1950's, shortly after the establishment of the modern State of Israel, there have been Israelis who decided to preserve and breed the few remaining pure Canaan dogs. That means nowadays their numbers are increasing and they can be found outside of Israel, too. 
> 
> * The biblical verses Aaron holds on to are my loose translation for Ezekiel 16:6 and for a Jewish prayer based on Jeremiah 17:14. Ezekiel's prophecy is complex, containing several messages. The specific verse Aaron recites uses the metaphor of an unwanted baby, abandoned in the field and condemned to die there, in order to convey the idea that it's precisely the abuse and mistreatment that should feed into a stronger drive to live.


	11. Chapter 11

It was always going to be a fall. At the back of his mind, to where the unavoidable must be relegated, behind countless dreams, somewhere on the border between darkness and death, that certainty has always been holding out, awaiting Aaron patiently. It was not sleep, what he awakens from, though it was black too, and just as encompassing. The Hebrew is somehow still himself when he sleeps, but in whatever this has been, all that was left of him was restlessness.

While this was no slumber, wake up from it he did and as it was happening, his mind was languidly and awkwardly slotting back into its place. He is more himself with every passing thought, much as at present, he does not wish to be. The memory of pain increasingly sears through him, burning in his arms where claws got to him, scorching the skin along his lower face, unscarred but bearing the recollection of teeth trying and failing to close on him as they were going for his neck. 

The tiger. 

Aaron's eyes open. 

He vaguely remembers before that, marching in the _pompa_ , the applause and shouts of the audience gathered to watch the gladiators and the sounds were coming from a million miles away. He was looking at them, viewing him. When a gladiator wins his first match, he gets a small stone coin inscribed with the letters 'SP' to represent one word, _spectatus_. And he was being observed, it was inescapable. 

Then the image shifts, It's more vivid. The tiger, its eyes wide with madness, too gone to observe anything, the weight of the beast, its shining claws... Aaron fell in that arena. He fell and even though he won his battle, he could not rise up. 

He's in bed. Back in his cell. He must have passed out and they moved him here while he was unconscious. He's breathing, but ever the prisoner. He's a prisoner, but still alive. Both points of view acutely resound in him. 

There is a cool sensation running from Aaron's arms and he guesses that's due to the ointments of the _medicus_. His biceps feel odd and he can't make out what their state is. He attempts moving to check on them, which results in an unintentional groan, the sudden pangs of pain taking their toll. 

There's a stirring from the floor. 

"Aaron?" 

Robert. 

He comes into view and the man looks a right mess. He couldn't have slept there, on the wooden floorboards. Could he? 

"You're awake!" 

Aaron sighs. "I'm aware. How long have you slept here?" 

"Hmm. Would you not first like to know how long you have been passed out?" Robert's tone is teasing. He gets a small nod for his trouble, that would be a reasonable first question to ask. "A week. You've been out of it for a week and I have been sacrificing to the gods every single day, before your fight and since, for them to protect your life." 

Aaron hums noncommittally. "Can you maybe sacrifice to them some more, so they would lessen the pain?" 

Worry etches itself immediately onto Robert's face. "Your arms?" 

Another tiny nod. The less Aaron moves, the better. He keeps going back and forth on which involves more movement, speaking or shaking his head, as even speech requires some measure of motion. 

Robert grimaces at him. "I cannot go calling on the _medicus_ , nobody's meant to know I am here..." 

"Then how did you...?" 

"Your trainer, the one from Gaul. Frank. He's been helping me keep my presence here unnoticed. I think in his way, he cares about you. I'll go ask him to bring the _med_..." 

"No." Aaron makes up his mind and decidedly sits up in bed, letting the sheet pool at his waist. That proves a poor idea, the pain flares up. Then just as quickly, though not fully gone, it does subside. Robert attempts to rush to his side, but the Hebrew fighter holds up his hand to signal there is no need for that. He's got more than enough experience with wounds, injuries and pain. After his little sit up test, he's convinced that his physical state at the end of the Great Revolt was far worse than it is now. The week he's spent unconscious probably helped. He can breathe through this, it's fine. "Stay." 

It takes a second before Robert carefully sits down on the bed. It's probably not a proper one to him considering how much better even soldier tents are when compared with gladiator cells. But the commander forewent all that and slept on the wooden floor of a slave's cell. For a week. The bed must be better than that. 

"For a bit, but then I will get you that medical attention you need." 

"If you insist." Aaron is strangely calm and at peace when he knows he shouldn't be. There is a reason he ended up with claws and predatory teeth trying to tear into his flesh. That reason has not gone away. "Laurentius..." 

Robert obliges. "Your victory in the arena was perceived to be incredible. You're very popular among the people for the time being and he will not touch you until it is safe again." 

Aaron huffs out with incredulousness. "That's me proven wrong, then. I never would have thought I could garner the crowd's favor." 

"You don't see how easy it is to love you?" That's accompanied by an odd expression and is quickly followed by, "Why do you think Frank has been such a help? It isn't for my sake." 

"He's a _doctor_ , who knows why they do any of the things they do." 

"I'm not a trainer and I'm here." 

Aaron looks away, shrugging. He doesn't care to point out that Robert's actions are just as much of a mystery to him. "Everyone that's ever loved me is long gone. There's no one left and it's probably best that way." 

It's evening by the looks of things. The angles of light and shade. 

Robert sighs beside him. "Has anyone ever told you that you're an idiot?" 

Aaron turns a raised eyebrow back on him. "That's no way to speak to an injured man." 

"It is if the injured man is not paying any attention." 

"Of course I am. It's evening now, isn't it? And you said it's been a week, making today Saturday." 

"Yes, and?" 

An old memory is slipping by Aaron's guard as his gaze drifts across the cell, of Saturdays in his childhood home, of their evenings. The whole family gathered round the Sabbath oil candles. A sense of quietness, the world slowing down. Holiness reflected in the space vacated by the hustle of daily life. Light filling everything around, playing with the shades at its borders like two old friends. The little boy he used to be mesmerized by every flicker of the flame, right about until his little sister would poke his sides for paying her no mind. He would mess her hair. Sometimes it would devolve into a mock fight. But even that felt different on the Shabbat. Special in a way he couldn't explain. 

All gone. 

He looks back into Robert's bright eyes. They appear to be gathering whatever light is left in the cell. "I should have found a way to light a candle. I should have been looking for olive oil, why didn't I do that before?" 

"Is that for some sort of a Jewish tradition?" 

He nods in the affirmative. "I guess without a family to gather round for this ceremony..." 

Robert looks conflicted. "Since you've mentioned things that should have been done, that medical seeing to..." 

"I don't need that. It is more than bearable." 

"I'm glad to hear that. I'm still going to find Frank and make sure that's not just you being bullheaded and avoiding treatment." 

"I'm not one of your soldiers, you can't make decisions for me." 

"No, I can't give you orders." Robert seems torn once more. "I have taken yours, however... I have something to share with you, and I will, but I will wait with that news until after the _medicus_ attends to you." 

"Whatever it is," there's a sinking feeling at the pit of Aaron's stomach, "I can take it and I'm better off not waiting and blowing it up in my mind. Tell me." 

The commander shakes his head exasperatedly. He meant this as an incentive when it came for the healer. It hasn't worked as he planned. He's rubbing his stubbled chin. The hair is so fine there, it easily went unnoticed before. The man hadn't shaved this entire week, Aaron suddenly realizes. Maybe even longer. 

"You wanted me to look for the other Hebrew gladiators in this town..." 

"The way you left here, I didn't think you would." 

"It's what you wanted, so I had to. That's why I couldn't come see you before the _venatio_. I intended to, but I was also trying to keep my promise, so you would yours and come out victorious." The softness in Robert's eyes adds, 'and you did', but the man doesn't say it. "I found two in this town, in separate _ludi_. I told them both of your background, that you were from Jerusalem, but fought in the Galilee. They were suspicious of me, I'd expect, until I started providing those details. I suppose they couldn't think of a reason why I would make that up. One of the two, he said that he had come across a Jewish gladiator of similar circumstances when he had been taken to a _munus_ held a few towns over. He told me everything about the man that he could remember. It wasn't so simple to track this fighter down, but I did. What he shared with me, Aaron... I didn't want to return to you before I could follow through on it..." 

Robert's hesitating again. 

"I promised you that I would come back alive from the arena and I did. I swear to you again, I can handle this. Please, trust me." 

A long exhale. "There aren't that many Aarons from Jerusalem who'd fought in the northern part of Judea, as it turns out. The man said he knew your family. That you were together in the same rebels unit in the Galilee where he heard from you about your mother and sister before he was called back to the capital, to hold a defensive position there..." 

Aaron grabs at Robert's shoulders. "David? Is that who you found?" 

"It is. He insisted that before he was taken away from Jerusalem together with other captives, he came across your sister. According to him, your mother's fate was... not pleasant, the soldiers who spoke to you didn't lie there, but your younger sister did not share it. David claimed she caught the eye of one Roman commander, who thought your sister would make a good handmaiden to his teenage daughter. He took her as part of his own loot, which kept her relatively unharmed." 

Aaron's mind is spinning, but he notices something in Robert's wording. "Insisted? According to him? Claimed? You don't think he has the truth of it." 

"I was... skeptical, yes. Most of all, I didn't want to raise up your hope if there was room for none. I kept investigating and Aaron, David was right. I know where she's kept as a house slave." 

The world spins so hard, Aaron can barely make any sense of it. 

"My little sister... You found her?" 

Robert confirms with a gentle squeeze to Aaron's hand and with the look in his eyes. 

"You found her." Aaron sounds awestruck to his own ears. He lets go of Robert's shoulders and his hands travel up to hold the man's face. "You found my little sister, you," it trembles coming out of him. There are tears starting to form in his eyes and reflect in his voice. For the first time since he was captured by those Roman soldiers in Judea and having learned of the complete waste that has been laid to his life, he can conceive of letting go and crying. He's too overcome by a myriad of emotions to be able to add anything more to what he's said, which is not enough. Instead, he opts to pull Robert closer. 

And kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pompa - parade held at the start of a munus  
> Spectatus - observed
> 
> * The pompa was quite a big deal. The gladiators about to fight in the munus marched in it, but In addition, it included the munerarius, musicians, dignitaries, other officials and also a sign bearer whose placard informed the audience on who participated, in which event and when. 
> 
> * While the word _spectatus_ might have literally meant 'observed', what it stood for was the idea that the person carrying the coin was found to be of a valor proven beyond all doubt. Aaron doesn't understand it in quite the same way. 
> 
> * Shabbat is the Hebrew name for Saturday. The term 'the Sabbath' for a sacred day of rest comes from this word.


	12. Chapter 12

Sands, the arena, rays of sun, company of the moon... The stars that used to shine brightly in Aaron's life until they were forced to fall from their skies, only darkness left in their stead as their light went out forever... All of these can not exist beyond themselves. If Aaron is removed from them, when he has something else he must concentrate his everything on, it can be easy enough to imagine they had never been in the first place. To embrace the notion until it is almost indistinguishable to reality. He has done precisely so for longer than he'd like to admit. Kissing Robert is nothing like that. It's a millisecond when their lips first touch and it stretches beyond itself and time.

It's unsure, despite how much of a revelation this is, or perhaps because of that. This is his way of thanking the other man and pouring into it all that is too much to express. It comes out shaky at best, when he can barely figure out what he's doing. But then Robert is holding him as well, tenderly mindful of where the scars run, he's pulling himself closer to Aaron, parting his own lips responsively and letting them slot into each other, kissing him like that's all this man has wanted to do ever since they first met. 

It can make falling stars reverse their course and climb up into the heavens. 

All too soon, it's over. Robert is moving away from him and Aaron feels drained. Of contact, of warmth. Of the sensation of togetherness that he had just now, after having been deprived of it for far too long. One more thing he'll have to fight for if he hopes to have it. His weariness of the idea takes over and it is bone-deep. He doesn't want to ask why. He does not have it in him to hear rejection and excuses. He's too raw in too many ways to be capable of dealing with this. Too exhausted from the burden he's had to carry and how it never stops, no matter what things look like. All the Hebrew cares for at the moment is to sink back down into the bed and sleep away the entire nightmare that his life has been since his capture. 

"I'm sorry," Robert says. 

Aaron is, too. For letting this man get under his skin. The gladiator remains mute and his eyes fixed on a random crack in the wall. 

When the commander gets up to leave, no one's stopping him. 

In the stillness that spreads throughout the cell after the door is shut, there's too much for Aaron to bear. He has to get out, he has to find something that would occupy his mind. Daylight is all but gone. Oil, he thinks. A small lamp for the candle, some oil to fill it with, a wick to stick out the lamp's opening... for a past he could again be reminded of without hurting as much. One that he must make sure would extend into his present. He has to think of how he finds his way to his sister and frees her from slavery. Escape will have to be a part of it, naturally, but it wouldn't be as simple as his last mad dash for freedom. This time, he has no option but to outlive any recapture attempt. He needs to plan, but his head's too much of a mess at the moment. Morning will bring him the clarity he requires for this. It will take away what he can't think of. Yes, an oil candle, because his life from before captivity is not forever gone after all. 

Gladiators are generally not overdressed when around the training grounds and what Aaron has on is enough to go wandering around. He's headed for the slaves kitchen. During the day, it would be bustling with life and he wouldn't dare go near it. Now there's only the one kitchen slave girl, there to keep the fires burning through the night. This allows for a quick start when it comes to the breakfasts of the fighters and the slaves. For the former, it facilitates an early start when it comes to their training. For the latter, it enables them to already be up and running before the free Romans who matter awaken and require attending to. 

Peculiar girl, that one. Her accent has always thrown Aaron off, he can't decide where or what class she's from. If he had to guess, he'd go with her coming from the Franks. Her dark eyes match her black hair and contrast with her pale skin. Underneath all the dirt of her kitchen duties, he's sure that she's gorgeous. That's not what he mostly remembers her for. He had recently joined the _ludus_ and she must have noticed how gaunt he was. Months of irregular food supply during the fighting in Judea, before his unit's defeat, had left their mark. Added to that was how the Roman captors gloated at their Hebrew prisoners of war and deprived them of sufficient food on the journey over. That might explain why he looked so pitiful back then, that she had snuck a few extra loaves of bread to him one evening. He thanked her, or he tried to. Her reaction struck him as offended and after that, he had kept his distance. The name that people used for her, Alicia, reflected that someone must have Latinized her name upon her own arrival at this household. He wonders what she would make of his request. 

She stares at him with her big eyes. As she does, the dirt doesn't matter much. She's beautiful even so. 

He asks for a _lucerna_ with some olive oil in it, as politely as he can, hopes she won't ask him why he needs one and won't turn him down. At first she doesn't react, simply goes on glaring at him, but then she nods and goes to get him precisely what he requested. He thanks her as she hands over to him all he needs to light the candle. Wonders when was the last occasion upon which she smiled and whether she was someone's younger sister. 

When he walks out, there is no mistaking the night that has spread over the mansion grounds. His one hand tightens around the little lamp with oil inside, while the other holds on fiercely to the elongated, thin stick burning at its one end, which he would need to light the candle. 

Robert is in the middle of the courtyard, giving out orders to some of his soldiers. Nothing too out of the ordinary by the looks of it, but the vision of the man, the beauty and strength in his gestures as he points his men to their respective tasks, it forces Aaron to swallow around a lump in his throat. 

One after the other, those Romans are all dispatched on various trivial missions and when done, when the courtyard is empty, Robert turns in his direction. Aaron's aware their gazes are about to meet and his mind gives him the order to head back into his cell, but he falls into step too late to avoid Robert catching him looking. He hastens his strides away. 

Going into his cell proves somewhat difficult with objects in both of his hands that he must be careful with, but just as he's about to let the door go from his shoulder, it's caught by someone behind him who prevents it from closing. Aaron doesn't even have to hazard a guess. 

Without looking at the man, the Judean puts the lamp down near the head of his bed. "Please close the door." 

He hears it being shut and in the near darkness, he mumbles the short blessing for the Shabbat. Lights the candle. It's not the biggest of flames, but with the refined olive oil to feed from, it casts a significant circle of shine around it. 

"What is that for?" Robert asks. 

"It's meant to lead the way. To kindness, to wisdom, to love." Aaron turns to face the soldier on the other side of the room. "What do you want, Robert?" 

There is no answer, because they both know what it is. 

Aaron rubs his hand over his mouth, tries not to shake his head sadly. He's about to dismiss the other man, when he's stopped. 

"Before. When I was... kissing you. I shouldn't have. Not when you're like this, hurt and reeling from what I had told you. I mean..." Robert abruptly scrunches his face up, like he's displeased by his own admission. "That was a part of why I pulled back. But another, a bigger one was... I could imagine before me my father's expression, the one he had on when he had caught me years ago, the disappointment embedded in it... " 

"You have lain with other men since living among the Romans, have you not? Why would this be any more upsetting to him, or to you?" 

"Because of how I feel for you." It's uttered with urgency, almost one word, like it's punched out of Robert. The other man doesn't look him in the eye. Chooses to focus on the floor instead. "I always believed some day, in some capacity, I would be able to go home and make it right with him. Right the way he understood it to be. That after I retake my place with my clansmen, I could leave a part of myself behind, among the Romans, having scratched that itch. But Aaron, just kissing you..." Robert is looking down, but it doesn't hide the awe that creeps into his voice, and the angle of his tilted head gives away the rise of his eyebrows, like he can't believe the emotion he's recounting, "that was too intense. I don't think there could ever be any coming back from that. If we do this, that's a goodbye forever to everything I thought I would eventually return to." 

"Then what are you doing here now?" 

No response. Stare still stuck on the floor. 

Aaron's first instinct is to bite back at this man, accuse him of being present for no reason other than to ease his own distress by offering an excuse for his cowardice. But the fighter finds that though he's very much angry and upset, he doesn't want Robert hurt. Aaron considers all he has lost. What the prospect of regaining parts of a seemingly foregone past is like. He thinks of his sister. Of being reunited with her and how he would not have that to look forward to if it weren't for Robert. 

"I understand," he says softly, tries to convey that he truly means his words. "It's alright." 

"No." Robert shakes his head and it's as if every golden hair moves with the resolve he puts into it. He looks up and right at Aaron. "It's not. I left this cell and tried to focus on my men in the encampment. Tried to remind myself why I walked out, of my dad and his disapproval. Miserable old man. I had to wonder whether he would have been as sour as he had been if he had someone in his life he cared about as I do you. All that kept creeping into my mind is how unbearable life would be if I never got to experience again all that you make me feel. What a bleak, hopeless future that would be. Aaron, it wasn't even difficult after that. I want to be with you. If you'll have me." 

The Hebrew doesn't take his eyes away. "I'm sorry." 

"What for?" The other man is evidently caught off guard, which could be expected given how he was the one that had come to apologize. 

"For all the parts of you that are not free." That's not an accusation. It's Aaron's struggle to express how loathe he is to take anything away from Robert that he would not be able to amend should the man come to regret his decision. 

A small smile breaks out. "I don't feel those parts when I'm with you." 

Robert closes the distance between them and cups Aaron's face in his hands. It's tender, but more importantly, there is no hesitation there that the Hebrew can detect. The man's waiting for permission and Aaron lifts his head up slightly, giving him access. Robert leans in and touches their lips together. 

It's different when it doesn't come as a shock to the system for both of them. Soft but for a second, it grows instantly into a storm and they're devouring each other's mouths, clinging and clawing. One uncareful move at his bicep and Aaron is wincing in pain from an accidentally squeezed scar. 

Robert stops immediately. "Are you alright?" 

Aaron nods, breathes through it. He knows it won't last long and he is an expert at handling physical pain. All men trained to fight are. 

But then he doesn't have to struggle as much. Robert cautiously caresses his cheek, above his scruff. Smooth skin against skin. It takes away from the sharp sting in his arm, smoothes it over. 

"Yeah, I think you should be the one to guide both of us," Robert smiles at him with no reservations and it's as brilliant as Aaron remembered. 

"I can do that," he grins in return. Holds on to Robert's face as he kisses him deeply. It's a fire consuming him from the inside. He can only quench it by immersing himself into the kiss completely. As he lets his tongue slip further into the man's mouth, tasting him as fully as possible, his one hand grabs at Robert's nape and pushes them closer together over the nonexistent space between them. His other starts traveling down, roaming over the offending Roman clothes that keep them separated. He pulls at the _focale_ , loosening it from its position around the neck, lets it fall to the floor. 

For the _cuirass_ he has to break them apart, enjoying the small whine that escapes Robert. It goes straight to Aaron's nether regions like lightning. He's never felt this alive, strumming with desire and purpose. With the certainty of being desired. He gets help as he puts all that into removing the combination of Roman metal, leather and cloth, revealing the man beneath the commander outfit. 

Once every piece has been removed, Aaron kisses Robert's mouth lightly, motions for him to lay down on the bed. Marks a path of worship from those delicious lips - savours the way they search for him when he moves on - through the fine stubble to the side of the neck, a spot where the moans filling his ears intensify, through the nipples that he bring to hardness with licks and bites, gives each separate attention, through the sharp line above sculpted hips that he dips his tongue into, down to the man's most private parts. There are scars on Robert's skin from battles he's participated in that make it look hardened, but when Aaron caresses it, the flesh yields eagerly to his touch. Far more than he would have imagined, especially where Robert opens up to him and the Hebrew lets his fingers travel all over it. Listens to the keen and hot responses from the man writhing beneath him. 

He licks a stripe across Robert's entrance, watches it contract and then expand, showing him the man is pushing for more, pleading. There are encouraging fingers carding in Aaron's hair as he lets his tongue apply a little more pressure. 

He stops. Rises a bit to take in the expanse of the body lying before him: long and graceful, taut and powerful, tense and quivering and melting, all at the same time. It's like living art and it takes Aaron's breath away. 

" _Futuo_ ," Robert curses, his complaint obvious. 

"Really, in Latin? I was hoping to learn some intercourse terms in Germanic from you..." 

"Shut up and go on or I'll teach you what the Germanic for 'bastard' is..." 

Aaron chuckles, but he doesn't give in to the demand, not just yet. 

"Robert, are you sure? This is _ceveo_. If anyone found out about this..." The threat to Robert's life hangs clear in the air. It clenches painfully at Aaron's chest. 

They're caught for a moment in simply admiring each other. Then Robert breaks the spell by sighing. "I know. I had never strayed from the Roman rules for this reason. But," he shakes his head, not breaking their eye contact, "I want this, Aaron. You, inside me. I have no doubts. I'm familiar with the risks and I choose to take them on, so will you please take off that hideous piece of cloth and let me feel you already?" 

Aaron grins at that and launches himself up Robert's body, capturing his lips. Feels their moans and their tongues all mixing and merging into one hungry kiss. 

The gladiator pulls himself off the bed and takes off his _subligaculum_ , stands by the bed and lets the other man absorb the view of his erect, circumcised cock. Probably the first one he'd ever encountered. He could change his mind. 

Robert reaches up, his torso lifting into a half-reclined position, and he kisses the uncovered tip. Again. Then he licks at it, bolder, shifts to take it into his mouth and the grunt it tears out of Aaron is one he's never heard come out of him. He's painfully hard and so much as another minute of oral ministrations might mean a premature climax. He pulls Robert off him by his hair, delights in how reluctant the man is to let him go and bends over to meet him in another kiss. He can't imagine ever tiring of sharing this. 

He tweaks Robert's nipples between his fingers as their kiss lingers. Aaron relishes how sensitive they must be given the whimpers that elicits into his mouth, swallowed up by him wholly. Without interrupting any of his attentions, he pushes his lover back down onto the bed, covers Robert's body with his own. When Aaron stops, he knows his lips must be swollen by the pulse that's running through them. The other man looks a similar mess, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed red, mouth falling open in a silent plea. 

Aaron dips his finger into the olive oil in the small lamp by his bed. He wants to laugh, it's all so odd. When he went to get the candle, this is certainly not how he imagined he would spend his night. Yet the connection between the uses of the oil this night makes perfect sense. It's on Shabbat that one must celebrate God's perfect creation. With love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucerna - candle, oil lamp  
> Futuo - fuck  
> Ceveo - sex where a man lets another man penetrate him
> 
> * Alicia is indeed a Latinized form of a French variation of a Germanic name meaning 'of noble kind'. That's a bit of a headache, right? I tried to resolve all that with Aaron implying she comes from among the Franks, a Germanic people from whom the name for France is derived and who make up a small percent of modern French people's ancestors. 
> 
> * I kid you not about there being a custom of celebrating the Jewish day of rest with love, both through spending time with the family, but also specifically through sex. The latter is called 'Oneg Shabbat', meaning 'Saturday delight', and it's a part of a more general perception of sex in Judaism that sees intercourse as a beautiful and natural part of God's creation. According to the Jewish faith, sex is not without limitations. It should still happen within certain societal expectations (for example, men would preferably only sleep with women after they'd married them. It's not a moral sin if they don't when both parties are single, it's more of a problem because in antiquity it presented a social issue for the women, who would then have trouble finding a husband), but it's not dirty or wrong in any way within itself. This perception doesn't see the body as something that needs to be conquered and controlled by the spirit, but as a continuation of and a way to more fully express the spirit. That's why to have sex can be understood as a way to celebrate God. That's actually not completely removed from the idea behind the ritualistic prostitution I mentioned in the notes for chapter 7, which was common in the pagan world surrounding the Israelites, where one worshipped a certain deity by having sex with a male or female ritualistic prostitute (that man or woman stood in for that specific pagan god or goddess and the worshipper was perceived to have had intercourse with the deity). Judaism rejected the notion that you can have sex with God (or with a stand in) and therefore the practice of ritualistic prostitution (I should mention that most "customers" of this were men, maybe unsurprisingly). Despite that, it did share something with those pagan cults: the idea that faith in God and sex are not contradictory, meaning the latter can be seen as an expression of the former.


	13. Chapter 13

The sands of the arena exist somewhere out there, but this morning is not theirs and they cannot steal it away from Aaron. Satiated, he'd dreamt of a fall, one that proved to be sweet in ways he'd never reckoned would have been possible - falling into Robert's arms. Being caught and made whole again by him. It was pure joy, as well as safe thanks to the clarity that all was going to remain precisely so, eternally. The dream simply was, a shift in the fabric of reality to a better, truer one. Nothing could ever make it stop being.

When the dream gives way to to Aaron's internal clock pulling him away from it with a call to breakfast and training, not even that can tear apart what the receding night has put asunder. Dawn's extraordinarily pale light infiltrates the cell and allows the Hebrew to enjoy Robert's features as the man slumbers. They're entangled in each other's embrace and it allows the Judean an intimate focus on the delicate countenance of the man before him, almost childlike in its innocence. 

It's a reminder of how enticing the arrogant commander is when he allows himself to be open and vulnerable. Last night returns to the Israelite, vividly. It plays out in his mind's eye and across his skin and nerve endings in great detail. What it was like being buried balls deep in Robert while savoring how the man hissed when Aaron had breached him. How he had squeezed his eyes shut, had tilted his head back, but also had moved his hips up in a wanton invitation to proceed. Spelling out 'too much' and 'please, **more** ' all at once. It was so enchanting to behold and Aaron had to bend down, press his mouth against the alluring exposed throat, sucking and biting on it interchangeably, punctuating that with his continued thrusts into the welcoming heat. Fingers intertwined, they fit so well together, holding on to each other not just on the outside, but from within as well. It was as if he was discovering that they were truly made for each other by divine providence. Robert's warmness enveloped Aaron fully, naturally, as if he was coming home to a place he'd never been but had always belonged to, like a swinging pendulum arriving at a stand still as it finds its center and is finally at peace, and the Judean groaned over how good it felt into the sensitive skin he was marking with his mouth. 

"Damn this to all gods," when Robert spoke, it came across as desperate and broken, "Aaron, I can feel this pinch from your cock head in the pit of my stomach, I can," he's so utterly breathless, "feel... **you**..." It was the best thing Aaron has ever heard. It fanned the flames of the fire that was already burning in him. He splayed his hand against the warm flesh at that spot and drove himself deeper in than he thought was humanly possible, almost as if he was going to sense what the other man mentioned, immersing himself into the man with each plunge forward. He pounded into Robert like he'd never done before, like the only place he would ever be able to find himself again was inside this lover. 

That's how they started out, face to face. Aaron wanted to be able to observe Robert's while he was fucking his lover. And it was glorious, watching all the emotions flickering there along with the candle's flame, but at a certain point he came to grasp that the commander was being too loud. Failing to control himself and being discovered in the gladiator's cell in this position was not an option. Aaron had no pillows to offer. His hand tightened around his lover's wrist, closing around the pulse there, and with this one warning, he pulled himself out, flipping the other man over and re-entering him, the exquisite deliciousness of his body, from an angle that allowed Robert to muffle his own cries against the mattress. 

With this new posture, which was providing more room for thrust momentum, Aaron could ram into his lover with renewed vitality and force. With anyone else, the fighter might have considered that this was maybe more than they could take, but Robert's a soldier. They've both been trained alike and have had some similar experiences, so there was no doubt in the Judean's mind that the other man was thriving on it when he was brought to be on just the right side of pain. The muffled noises from the mattress and the way that Aaron was being met with a push back on every stroke confirmed this. 

Not that Robert had any chance left to him of keeping this up for long. Not when he was pinned between those powerful lunges and the mattress, nor when his hips were grabbed onto so tightly, to bring the two of them as close together with each motion as any couple could be. His whimpers were progressively more choked, his efforts to fuck himself back onto Aaron's cock were growing more feeble, more erratic, the shaking in his thighs more noticeable. His own dick went untouched, the Judean was aware that the stimulation from being penetrated for the first time would be too much to handle as is. It seemed like he had it right. Even with mouth buried against the bed, fingers clawing into his own skin to keep from shouting, there is a distinct cry accompanied by a tremor that overtakes his everything as Robert climaxes. He tenses up everywhere, clenches down around the cock continuing to penetrate him, falls to pieces, then lets it all go, his muscles liquified and his frame boneless. 

The thought fleeted through Aaron's mind as that, of how sensitive, how raw the flesh must have been where he was still being willingly taken in and it hit him harder than any foe ever could. That he was allowed this. That Robert had given him permission, not just to fuck the man he had been able to then think of as a lover, but to introduce him to all of these sensations. There was so much trust in that act, Aaron took a few more stuttering stabs at the other man's guts and he was coming, too. He was spilling inside with every jab, laying a claim to Robert that no societal norms could erase. He collapsed on top of the man's back. Tiredly ran his hand over the muscles glistening with sweat, over the sheen covered curve that ran down from those broad shoulders to where they were still joined. Aaron began pulling out, but Robert almost right away grabbed at him weakly to prevent that. Too exhausted to properly move his head up from the mattress, words somewhat slurred, he insisted, "No, stay. I want to feel your warmth. I like how you're making it spread inside me." 

Aaron seared a quick, affectionate peck onto Robert's nape, right below the hairline. "Anything." 

He repeats the gesture now, only on a slightly flushed cheek. He has no way of knowing when he fell asleep, how he slipped out of Robert, but he likes that whatever happened during sleep, they ended up in an embrace. 

He carefully releases himself from Robert's arms, not wanting to disturb him. Moves over to where the Roman soldier _vestis_ is a messy pile on the floor. His eyes linger on the _gladius_. It's a soldier's sword, close enough to his gladiator one as the latter was modeled on the former. They were meant to be one and the same in a sense, the _legionarius_ and the gladiator. Same values, same pursuit of an honorable death. One meant to chase it in the battlefield, where he would serve the Empire, but the citizens of Rome could not behold his sacrifice, the other meant to replicate that in the arena, for the crowd's appeasement and entrainment. It was a lie, of course. There was no honor in death, he recalls his words to the commander. Certainly not in dying as a slave for your captors' amusement and least of all when there are those who need you to live. This sword, it's a symbol. This is what all that bloodlust originates with. 

There's a stirring in the bed. "See something you like?" Robert's voice is gruff, which is nothing to wonder at given how vocal the man couldn't stop being during the sex they had. Aaron looks over at him and won't admit that yes, he does. 

"How are you this morning?" he asks instead. 

Robert moves his legs a little, seemingly checking for an answer. "A little sore," he says and at Aaron's concern, immediately follows that with, "pleasantly so, mind you." 

The gladiator nods. He tries to assess how forthcoming the other man is, but the lazy, content smile he sees puts him at ease. 

"Sore, are you? I thought I was the one recently mauled by a tiger." 

"After last night, I feel like I can say the same." 

Aaron chuckles and comes over to the bed. "Can you? I promise, I haven't even begun to devour you." He means it. There are still so many things he wants them to explore together. He leans down and captures those tantalizing lips in a kiss. It's long, unhurried, rushing nowhere. An affirmation of what their actions the night before meant to both men. 

When they part again, they're both smiling at each other. Robert's cock was spent, but the leisure in their kiss did not prevent it from moving to semi-hardness. Aaron lazily scraps the tips of his fingernails over it, feels it twitching. His own erection is starting to show signs of interest. 

Robert looks happier than Aaron had ever witnessed. It pricks at his heart suddenly, knowing what must come next. 

That doesn't go unnoticed. "What is it?" Robert inquires. 

"I have to find my sister and free her. I can't stay here." 

There's no point glossing over it or delaying the inevitable fight they will have over it. The commander won't be able to accept this as the gladiator's intent unavoidably spells another round of trying to escape. The objection that will follow is not so much a matter of opinion, the basic reality of being trained as a soldier is the difficulty to break with orders and go against whatever those in command have decreed. Yet, Aaron has no choice in this matter. The _praeceptorem_ can argue all he likes, this isn't up for discussion. 

Robert mulls this over silently. 

Then he reluctantly nods. "Alright," he agrees. Repeats, a little louder, "Alright, but you let me help you with this." 

Aaron is stunned. "I..." 

"You thought I would object? I would have given a lot to have my family back, even a small fraction of it. I would never deny you the opportunity to get that." 

"You know what that has to entail." 

Robert caresses his cheek. "You're leaving and you won't ever be able to stay anywhere under Roman rule." 

Aaron closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "I won't see you again." 

Without taking his hand away, Robert draws near and kisses the side of his lover's other cheek. Framing him. "I'm helping you. No matter what." 

Speechless, Aaron kisses the other man back, since verbal responses would fail to convey his emotions in any case. 

After a while, Robert pulls away. "I have to go check on my men. The soldiers in my _contubernium_ have been indulging in too much fun with their free time lately, they've been joining in on the gladiators orgies. I've let them, because it's kept them distracted from what I've been up to." He doesn't articulate it, but it hangs in the air. The commander's men, the army, those were the things that have made up his life since he was removed from his tribal home and to them he'll be returning when this episode in his life is over, once Aaron's gone. "The first instant I can, I'll make sure the _medicus_ is sent in to attend to you. When I return, we'll figure out how we're going to do this, together." 

They let another kiss linger between them, an affectionate consent to be partners in this plan. Despite his statement, Robert makes no move for his clothes. This morning is theirs and nothing should interfere with that. They're so engrossed in each other, they almost miss the knock on the door that's quickly followed by someone entering the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vestis - outfit  
> Contubernium - the basic unit making up the Roman army
> 
> * Even though a _contubernium_ was the basic, and therefore smallest of the infantry units in the Roman legions, it would have still been quite an accomplishment for Robert to become a commander of one given his relatively young age and the fact that he wasn't born a Roman but rather was a foreign ally. 
> 
> * I should point out here that Robert has good reason to insist on Aaron using the services of the _medicus_. Gladiators were expensive to train and their owners didn't want to lose money on them dying from injuries during battles that weren't meant to be fought to the death. That's why the best medical care in the Roman Empire was the one provided to the gladiators.


	14. Chapter 14

The tales of Aaron's ancestors spoke of a couple, the first humans, and how they did not recognize their own nakedness until there was a snake in the garden. An outside presence changing their perception of themselves. It was a story that always left the Hebrew boy saddened if he reflected on it too much. The paradise that has to be lost. The self that inevitably is changed by others. That all springs into Aaron's mind as Frank steps into the gladiator's cell, a stark contrast to the two nude men he finds there.

Robert jumps out of bed and over to his pile of clothes immediately, but he's alone in that. The Judean, in comparison, reclines and lets himself occupy the bed more fully, examining the Gaul's reaction. It's embarrassment, the trainer turns sideways in an attempt to preserve some modesty and dignity in this encounter. He takes it to be a positive sign, that the trainer is not right away attacking them. 

"I..." Frank coughs nervously. "I came to warn you that the soldiers are looking for you, _Praeceptorem_. It seems your commanders have sent an _actarius_ in search of you." 

Robert, fully dressed in his attire once more, flinched at that. He looked to Aaron. "I have to go..." It was full of reservation, not wanting to leave just then, with so much hanging in the balance between all three men. 

"It's fine," the Hebrew fighter reassured him. "Go, do what you have to." He makes his point by finally moving to put his _subligaculum_ on. When he's done, Robert had already slipped out, careful not to open the door too much before shutting it behind him. 

Aaron isn't sure what to say, how to be on the safe side when it comes to the life of the commander by keeping the trainer quiet. 

Frank beats him to the punch and speaks first. "I won't tell you anything about the risks you two are taking. I'm positive you are well aware of those." 

"You're not going to say anything about this?" 

"Why would I? Nor am I going to inform anyone on what I'm sure you're planning next." 

This takes Aaron by surprise. "What do you mean?" 

"While you were in a coma, Commander Tiberius had talked to me, asking for my help. I've been making sure that other than him, myself and the _medicus_ , no one would approach this room and that the healer would never get here when he was present. He's told me some things... not anything crucial, I'd imagine. I would think him too cautious for that. But he did tell me of your sister, of how he was trying to help you with her. He must have filled you in on his discoveries and I have no doubt learning she's been taken as a slave can probably only translate into one course of action in your mind..." 

"And you hope to dissuade me from it?" 

"I had two daughters... I have. I have two daughters." Frank makes a small, choked sound as he pushes the words out through whatever barrier he has had to put up long ago. "I... I hope I have them still. I wouldn't know. I've asked for and have been denied permission to contact them or anyone else of my clansmen back in Gaul. Like you, I've thought of breaking the rules to find out. I just wanted the peace of mind that no war fought on our lands had brought them any harm. As far as I know, however, they are free. As long as I have no reason to suspect differently, the consequences of disobeying _Dominus_ and contacting them would only be a disservice for them. But the truth is, there will always be a doubt there. I... might not have made the right choice and I can't try to find out without putting them in harm's way. If I had certainty that they are suffering? Aaron, if you choose a different path to me, I would understand and lend you my help, as much as I can." 

It's the first time the Hebrew has ever heard the _doctor_ using his name. His limbs are heavy and awkward at his side as he contemplates whether he should hug the man as a sign of his gratitude. A part of him wants to, but it's buried under many other layers that life as a captured slave had covered him with. 

Frank shakes his head. "You don't have to thank me. Just find her. And be free and happy together. For all of us who are being denied." That hits Aaron, it warrants an answer, but he doesn't have one. Before he can add anything, the Gaul continues, "It's probably a wiser choice for you to leave even had you not learned of your sister's fate. _Dominus_ is very much interested in being rid of you. He had already summoned me to him, to instruct that you are to fight again in the arena as soon as you can stand again. He must assume that when wounded from the _venatio_ , that would have the desired result of killing you without suspicion." 

Aaron raises both eyebrows. "He's devious like that, I guess." 

"He's an imbecile who has too little appreciation for your abilities as a fighter. Aaron, I had never seen anything like you in the arena. Too bad we can't pit him against you. That might have taught him a much needed lesson." They exchange a smirk over this and for a second, the Hebrew fighter remembers days of camaraderie with fellow rebels among the green Galilee hills. "We should do what we can to delay the _medicus_. He should check on you soon enough and when he does, Don't lie to him, but do allow him to think you've not got the strength to stand up yet. Whether it works or not, I will teach you a few tricks to deal with your arms. Are they sore right now?" 

"The pain comes and goes, but so far, it's been manageable for the most part." 

"Hopefully you won't have to manage it when you fight again, not if I do my job as a trainer properly. Do you have some concrete plan already?" 

"Not yet. I was going to devise one with... Tiberius." 

Frank purses his lips with concentration. "If I notice any opening you can use, I will pass that on to you. And, if you don't mind me pointing this out, you do understand what the consequences are? You will have to flee any area of Roman jurisdiction, while he must remain in the army, as his service means his life is pledged to it. The odds are you will never meet that man again once you go." 

Something inside Aaron almost crumbles at this. "It's the one unavoidable factor in all of this, isn't it?" 

"I suppose so. Still, I hope you don't break his heart. I got the impression he's in love with you." 

If the _doctor_ had pulled out a club and used it to knock the Judean over the head, he couldn't have stunned him more. 

Frank smiles half crookedly at him, a touch of sadness there. "I'll go call the medic now. Aaron? It is good to see you on your feet." And he exits. 

* ~ *

Evening brings Robert back with it and a surprising warmth that builds up in Aaron's stomach as they kiss the hours of separation away. 

When they finally break it off, the worry of the passing day sets back in and has him interrogating the commander on what message did the _actarius_ deliver. 

"It would appear there is dissatisfaction in the ranks above me with the lack so far of suspects for the murders I was appointed to look into." 

"You were expected to produce results already?" 

"Nobody likes the idea of a killer out on the prowl, able to strike again at any given point. They need someone to execute, so the public can feel served and protected." 

"Did they threaten to take measures against you if you didn't find the man responsible soon?" 

"Of course." Robert's easy grin stands in full contrast with the fearful tightening in Aaron's chest. "It is the way of the Roman army. But they can't punish me too severely. They may not be pleased with me currently, but I am still one of their best commanders." 

Aaron huffs out, somewhat relieved. "The humblest of them, too." 

"I know my worth. No matter what the circumstances of a battle are, I can always come up with a plan of action to deal with it all." It's a real wonder, when did this smug smile stop being infuriating to the Hebrew. 

"Right, genius. In that case, what about a plan for our situation?" 

"I have actually been mulling it over. I don't have a complete plan yet, but one thing I'm positive of, that fat bastard that calls himself your _Dominus_? He's going to be a part of it. Ever since he couldn't get erect for me, he's been drinking quite the impressive amounts of wine. Whenever I've had to address him, I've been taking subtle digs at him meant to remind him of his failure and help push him further down that path..." 

"No, please! Robert, you have to be smarter than that. I don't want him targeting you as well." 

"He won't be. I'm letting him believe that I am still interested in him. He wants that, so he'll accept it for as long as he can, that I am merely disappointed we cannot consummate our attraction. I am being smart about this, I promise you. And if my commanders in the army can trust my judgment, so should you." 

"Maybe they're the ones mistaken." 

Robert nudges him. "You don't mean that." 

Aaron cocks up an eyebrow. "Don't I?" The way his lips can't help but curl into a smile unfortunately betrays him. 

"If I need to assure you, then I will share with you that to be on the safe side I've made up my mind to acquire some powder which will deepen his sleep ten times fold. I will start mixing up measures of it into his drinks in gradually increasing doses. It will help increase his disorientation, make him easier to manipulate and we can use that to our advantage when the time comes." 

Aaron has a question that lingers on the tip of his tongue, but he'd more readily die than utter it. 'All this, for _me_?' He tries to assess the veracity of Frank's suggestion earlier. He can almost embrace it when doubt creeps in, enhanced by the fact that their bond is doomed to be severed. He puts it all aside by concentrating on the practical. 

"Robert, the longer this takes, my sister..." 

"Don't worry. The contact I have that I used in order to locate her current whereabouts? I've already asked him about her wellbeing. I can tell you that she's been well treated from what he could observe and soon enough, you'll be able to make sure of that yourself." 

That eases Aaron's mind some, though a new question enters it. "This contact of yours... Is he someone that you were...?" He struggles to finish a thought filled with jealousy that he's aware he has no right to. 

"He was, quite a few years ago. But, Aaron? He doesn't come close to you." Robert leans closer in and underscores his words by a light kiss. "No one ever has," he adds, sounding like he somehow finds equal measures of surprise and delight in saying it. 

Aaron lets the breath he was holding onto out and right into Robert's mouth, grabbing at the other man, reluctant to ever let go again, knowing he eventually will have to. Whether Frank is correct or not, this is his for the time being, it's so much more than he has had for so long, more than he could dare dream of, and he'll take it. 

* ~ *

"Tomorrow," Frank had said. The next day it was going to be, then, back to the fight. A return to the arena and the masses the Hebrew fighter was told screamed for him as he passed out upon those sands. Aaron has had the benefit of two more days of rest before he had to resume practice as normal. The Gaul had kept his promise to work with the Hebrew around the injuries the fighter had suffered in the several days they ended up having for that. The trainer even repeated this reassurement as he had instructed his gladiator to go look at the _palus_ announcement of who Aaron was matched with for his next combat. 

The next day is going be a day of battle, as so many days before it had been, in accordance with the Romans' dictation. It makes Aaron itch with an uncontrollable desire to see Robert and fill him in on this. They had spent every passing night together, constructing a daring escape plan, sharing stories, joking together, discussing matters of no consequence and losing themselves in each other. They had slept with their bodies so enmeshed, they would seemingly be impossible to separate. But the fall of dark that would allow them to meet once more seems so unbearably far away. He wants to hold on to the other man, desperately needs the calm it would provide him, finds himself turning to the _castra_ when he knows he shouldn't go there, looking for the commander. It's fine, he'll only give the man a sign to come to the gladiator's cell and will immediately leave. The tents encampment isn't very big. Thanks to that, detecting the the silhouette of the tall commander isn't too difficult. As if there is some deeper bond that lets Robert sense him, the other man turns to look in his direction almost instantaneously. The Judean gives him a quick nod, then he quickly departs toward his own cell without having entered the premises of the soldiers' camp, heart beating madly with the hope no one else had noticed his presence so close to the place. 

"Tomorrow," Aaron passes on the information as soon as Robert enters the room, "I fight again." 

The news is received with a frown. "I thought we'd have more of a breather before you have to re-enter the arena." 

"We were both wrong, because we wanted that to be the case. We can't be so blind anymore." 

Frown etching slightly deeper into his face, Robert determines, "We won't be. We'll have to speed things up, but we will get you to your sister. You will be together." 

Aaron takes a deep breath in, closes his eyes. There's been a recurring fear gnawing at him whenever he's considered exactly what the other man's just mentioned. The possibility that he might be closer to hugging her once more than they'd previously discussed makes that apprehension hit him harder, too much to hold in. He may be reluctant about it, he may not be sure how to approach the subject, but he has to speak. 

"Robert, are you familiar with that stone coin that they give to gladiators when we first win in the arena...?" 

"The one that reads _spectatus_?" 

"One and the same. The spiritual teachers of my people... In referring to that, they once said, _'be among the observers, not among the observed'_..." 

The frown that wrinkled Robert's forehead clears up. "You're scared that even if we manage your escape, you won't be able to make your way back from the latter to the former." 

Aaron looks in silent confirmation at his lover. A strange combination of emotions takes hold of him. It isn't simple, or perhaps for some it may be, but not for him, to be so truly understood. 

The commander touches his hand to the side of the fighter's face. "It's quite reasonable, to expect that you will struggle to return to a regular life once you're away from the arena and reunited with your sister. But you're the strongest man I know, Aaron. I have every faith that you'll make it." 

Like a man who was drowning and clutching at a piece of driftwood that may save his life, Aaron grabs onto Robert. In response and without delay, he finds himself wrapped up in a tight embrace. The Hebrew fighter buries his face in the crook of his lover's neck, where hot tears can freely sting his eyes. 

"I love you," he whispers into Robert, warmly engulfed in his arms. 'It hurts, how much I am going to miss you', he doesn't dare utter. 

"I love you, too." 

It takes a while before the tears, that started falling of their own accord, in spite of Aaron squinting his eyes, subside. Robert makes it better, though, kissing each one away. The commander should go back to his men, but neither one of them is going to mention that. They take their time, shedding each other's clothing items as they're about to offer each other whatever solace they can for what they are afraid to lose. 

If there are shadows closing in from outside, if someone was standing not too far from the cell's door, they have no way of taking note of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actarius - military clerk  
> Palus - wooden post  
> Castra - soldiers encampment
> 
> * I have to confess I almost wrote that a new question mark had entered Aaron's mind. That wouldn't work because ancient Hebrew punctuation is different to the moden one and it does not include the question mark. It's the context (and the use of question words) that makes it clear when someone is asking something rather than is saying it. 
> 
> * In case you were wondering, despite the similarity, the word 'phallus' has nothing to do with the Latin term for a wooden post. Though I do find it to be a funny coincidence.


	15. Chapter 15

Deceiving is what they usually are to Aaron, but today, the eternally golden sands of the arena remind him of the tint in Robert's _cuirass_ , of his hair. The gladiator shakes his head and cannot help the escaping of a growl. This is not what he is to think of as he prepares to go in. There had been so many battles he'd fought with the ease and abandon of a man who had little to lose. That was no longer true for him and he had to find his rage again, focus on it, in the hope that it would lead him through.

Whatever he does, he must not linger on recollections of what last night's confession signified. What his cell holds would under any normal circumstances be considered a poor excuse for a bed, but with Robert in it lately, it has become in a sense both a sanctuary and a home. The memory of that very morning sneaks in defiantly, of waking up to his lover's laughter, of soaking in the joy of it, of taking his breath away with pre-dawn love making. Of dressing up together after that. Of looking over and seeing Robert in his _tunica_ , a touch disheveled and too beautiful to bear. The most beautiful man Aaron had ever seen. It was a good ache constricting his chest, stopping him in his tracks, when his lover gazed back at him and drew him in for an affectionate kiss. It wasn't supposed to turn passionate, but as Robert walked them over, pressed them up against the wall, it inevitably did. And the Hebrew fighter must absolutely not dwell on any of that. 

Il Rosso snaps him out of his reverie by coming to stand next to him. It's the way that the Roman does it that's odd. Usually, he keeps his distance from the lowly, filthy Jew, but on the occasions when he has been on the lookout for a fight, he has always tried to verbally provoke it into happening. But now, he's keeping his mouth shut. Worse, Aaron can feel the former thief's stare boring into him. As the Israelite becomes convinced this will not stop until he forces an end to it, he turns his head to glare back at the other gladiator. 

The temptation is to confront the Latin with a sharp, 'what?' but that would be a mistake. It lets irritation dictate the exchange and is more likely to lead to an altercation precisely when one could destroy everything, so close to the end of his imprisonment in the _ludus_. He's going to keep mum and unperturbed, while reminding Il Rosso the convicted thief's not as intimidating as he makes himself out to be. 

After a few long, tense minutes, the Roman mutters through teeth clenched with disgust and barely controlled anger, "I know what you two are up to." 

A burst of panic sends Aaron's thoughts to race through the previous days' events. Yesterday, it must have been then that the Latin saw him sneaking around next to the _castra_. The Judean curses himself inwardly for his risk taking. Outwardly, however, he shrugs and turns his eyes back to the arena. "I have no idea what, or even who, you're talking about." 

"You're filth. You hear me, Jew boy? And he's as abhorrent as you are for letting you touch him like that. You both deserve what's coming your way." 

With that, Il Rosso backs away and Aaron fights the impulse to follow him, to quench the dread that takes possession of him by letting it out with his fists on the Latin gladiator. He'll have to confront him, one way or another, but there's a combat first, that he has to win. 

He looks at the crowds closing in on the circular pit of sands from all sides, filling up the _cavea_. He's grateful the two of them had decided it was better for Robert to keep his distance that day. Their reasoning had nothing to do with Il Rosso, but it held up even more now. Anything that might arouse suspicion will work against them if the Roman gladiator comes forward. All the same, the Hebrew can't help but wish he could see the familiar face among those of the masses, soothing the turmoil he was thrown into. He pictures his lover in the audience, reassuring him that everything would be alright with a calm gaze. Aaron can smell him, taste him in his mind. Feel his touch. To the fighter's surprise, even without Robert physically there, his nerves give way to a sense of peace he's never felt in the past right before a fight. Nearly countless are the things that have gone terribly wrong in his life and yet here he is, with a small measure of stolen happiness. Ripped out of the hands of a cruel, uncaring empire. He closes his grip tightly on the handle of his _gladius_. At this crossroads of fate, he has Robert. He has Frank's help. Has the reunion with his younger sister awaiting him. Everything he's been through has been working in mysterious ways to bring him to this junction. It's not rage that's marking his path forward. He has faith. 

* ~ *

As soon as Aaron steps through the _Porta Triumphalis_ , sword bloodied and steady in his hand, his attentions divert back to Il Rosso. How much damage can the Latin plan on causing them? He'll have no proof of any _ceveo_ committed by the commander other than his own testimony, but that may be enough. Much as he has been enslaved as a gladiator for having committed crimes, Il Rosso was a Roman, while they were not. That might be all it takes to decide the matter. The idea that this could ultimately lead to Robert's execution is suffocating Aaron and as the triumphant gladiators gradually gather in the backstage room reserved for the victors, he's keeping his eye out for Frank. He needs to make sure the information is passed on to him and to Robert. 

He registers when Il Rosso returns from his own combat, giving out the impression that despite the blows exchanged out there, the Latin is still frothing at the mouth with unspent wrath. Aaron makes every effort to be as far from his adversary as he can be, though possibly a redundant precaution. Whatever the Roman fighter has in mind, it's not very likely to happen here. 

Frank thankfully enters the room, accompanied by two other trainers. A regular gladiator wouldn't normally approach the head _doctor_ in this situation unless spoken to. It's for this reason that the Hebrew settles for standing to the side, not too far from where the three instructors are conversing. He waits to be certain that the Latin gladiator isn't looking their way and only then does he tap his foot, as if nervous, to catch the Gaul's attention. Frank picks up on the hint and shortly after, on his own, he calls the Judean aside. 

"I understand," he says solemnly, having heard Aaron. "There are still a couple of matches not finished, but I'll have everyone returned to the _ludus_ at once. I will find Commander Tiberius and we can discuss this together." 

It's a load off, to not be the only one handling whatever threat Il Rosso poses to them. Aaron holds on to that as their party makes its way back from the _amphitheatrum_ , remaining constantly aware of the Roman's exact whereabouts the whole time. The Latin gladiator's mood is judged by his peers to be sour since he interacts with the other fighters much less than is his usual, boastful demeanor. Instead, his speech is abrupt and his appearance dark. 

It's late dusk by the time the gladiators have been returned to their dwellings and there's a chill in the air. It runs down Aaron's spine as well, when he lets himself consider what fate the Romans would have in store for the man that only the night before he had admitted to loving. He's torn over what to do until Frank and Robert show up. Another orgy will soon begin in the courtyard and he would prefer nothing but to get away from there, but he also feels the need to keep Il Rosso in his sights. 

The first drinks of the feast are being carried out when Aaron detects the figure of the Gaul on the other side of the courtyard, beckoning the Hebrew into the shadows. He's being called to the spot he had taken advantage of when he escaped the _ludus_ on his own, the one untouched by practically any illumination. It's not the safest of places for the three of them to meet, but the orgy about to commence means Robert wouldn't be able to cross the courtyard and slip into the Judean's cell without detection. Ironically, it's the exact same mayhem of drunken, eager to fuck victorious gladiators that could distract any attentions away from the shadowy, quiet corner they're now gathered in. 

The instant Aaron lays his eyes on Robert, he wants to kiss him. To hold him, to assure himself of the other man's reality. Frank's presence stops him. That's probably for the best, but he still expects to recognize the same glimpses of frustration reflected in his lover's face, or some apprehension over Il Rosso's threat. Instead, Robert is beaming at him. 

"I've completed them earlier today, while you were at the arena," he announces right away. 

It takes the Hebrew a second to figure out what's being referenced. "What, the fake letters?" 

"And the fake diary. It's all ready to be used. We can get you out of here tonight, so by morning, it won't matter what one convicted thief claims." 

Aaron contemplates how quickly they must act. "And you're certain the sleeping powder will aid in turning Laurentius dazed and malleable?" 

"I used rather healthy doses. Under the combined influence of that and the wine, he should offer us no challenge." 

"Indeed," the Gaul interjected with his own input, " _Dominus_ has been showing mounting signs of confusion." 

"That's good," Aaron agrees, but with little conviction. 

Robert's mouth drops. "What's the matter?" 

It hurts, looking straight into his eyes. "If I go tonight, Il Rosso's accusations won't matter to me, but what about you? It's you he's putting in true danger." 

There's a twinkle that reappears in there. "Is that all? That's no real concern. Whatever you may think that they would make of my," the small break caused by Robert's reluctance to mention his Germanic origin around Frank is too short to alert the Gaul trainer to anything, "background before I joined the Roman army, they will not choose the word of an enslaved criminal over that of a valued commander in the _exercitus_. More importantly, do you remember everything about where you need to reach, when and how you will make your way there?" 

"Everything, yes." 

"Good," it's Frank who responds, oblivious to the fear which refuses to unclench Aaron's insides. "It's time to face the monster." 

* ~ *

It's Robert's status as commander but also his standing as Laurentius' pet that gets them an audience with the _lanista_ after dark and without having been summoned. When the old man walks into the hall, he looks his years and worse. His beard has grown wild and he reeks of alcohol. His eyes are sunken and walk, wobbly. Momentary compassion comes over Aaron, when he recalls what his lover had said to him when they had decided on this plan. 

_'Laurentius tried to have you killed, several times. He's too much of a weakling and a coward to have attacked you himself, but he might as well have for all his efforts. This is what he deserves, it's the only way to keep you safe from him and it's still a kinder fate than the blade I would have used to sever his throat with for his repeated attempts to murder you. That his failures cover up his intentions and he goes unpunished is a greater crime than anything we're about to do'_. 

It's Robert who starts things off. " _Dominus_ , how good you look!" 

Laurentius snorts at that. "Enough with the pleasantries. What do you want, Tiberius?" Aaron wouldn't put his money on Laurentius picking up on the mockery, his response is more the matter of a master addressing a servant over being addressed by them. "Speak to the point, I'm in no mood for long discussions. Especially," the _lanista_ continues, "when you've brought **that** with you..." He waves his finger around, too bleary eyed to point it directly at the Hebrew man as the target of his scorn. 

"Alright," Robert stands more upright suddenly. There's something harder about the set of his mouth. "I brought him here because you have a choice." 

"Oh?" 

"One option is I turn over these to my commanders," Robert shows Laurentius the bunch of letters he had prepared, "confessing to the affair we've had. Interestingly," his tone reminds Aaron of the actors he's heard performing with stressed exaggeration, "these are all written by you, easily proven since they bear your stamp. Only you would have access to it, isn't that right? And some of them are incredibly juicy, confessing how you let me bugger you and how much you enjoyed it. Eager to do it again and again, I believe is the way you put it. Frank over there even got a copy of your diary," the Gaul holds the respective ledger up, "which corroborates many of those details." He doesn't continue until Laurentius' eyes go from partly glassy to slightly panicked, signaling that the meaning of the threat has hit home. "The other option is, you grant Aaron his _liberatio_." 

Laurentius' face contorts with anger and indignation. A strangled, "You...!" slips out as he takes a swing at Robert, but the commander effortlessly side steps him. His fist punching at nothing but air, the _lanista_ loses his balance and falls to the ground. While the man is lying down there, Robert leans over him and calmly adds, "I said you have a choice, but you'll find, it's not much of one. Aaron's freedom is a small price to pay for all you stand to lose if you refuse this, everything you own, every free citizen right you have and even your own life..." 

The fall seems to have knocked the fight out of Laurentius. His breathing heavy and his gaze unfocused, he doesn't answer the commander. 

"I'll take that as agreement, then. No need for you to go to any trouble, we'll sort this out and find a _rudis_ for him on your behalf." 

Stepping away from the old man and closer to Frank and Aaron, Robert gives them the cue to split up as they had agreed they would. He remains by Laurentius' side to guard him. The Gaul goes to search for a _rudis_ in the _lanista_ chambers. The Judean heads for the inner courtyard of Laurentius' house, where one or two horses were usually kept ready, if any needs for them arises, tied to a wooden fence. 

Aaron's thoughts are buzzing in his head, struggling to accept that he may be free in just a short while. His emotions are even wilder in range and intensity, he's experiencing every feeling he's ever had, all at once and all too much. 

He struggles to bring it all back under control when he hears, "I'm not gonna let you get away with it." 

Aaron has just enough time to turn around and see the club that's aimed right at him and is about to take him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cavea - seating parts of the amphitheatre  
> Porta Triumphalis - victors' gate out of the arena  
> Exercitus - army  
> Liberatio - the freeing of a gladiator  
> Rudis - wooden sword symbolizing that a gladiator has been granted his freedom
> 
> * The word for army reminds you of 'exercise' because they are linked. The idea was that the army is a body of exercised men, trained to fight. 
> 
> * Maybe I should note that 'arena' is specifically meant for the sandy pit in which the gladiators fought at the center of the amphitheatre. The term comes from the Latin word for sand, 'harena'. There were three gates out of it, one for the victorious gladiators, mentioned in this chapter, one for those defeated but spared and the last one was the 'gate of death'.


	16. Chapter 16

Aaron grew up with the story of how the world had been created drenched in darkness and out of that, a light was born. A little of it, insisted the wise men of his faith, is all it takes to chase a lot of the dark away. Light to glimmer like gold, to burn like fire. Light to reflect off sands near and far, those of a gone childhood, those of a life stolen and deformed by captivity. The inner courtyard is darkened, but there are splinters of light coming from Laurentius' house, bouncing off the club that's headed for him and filling his field of vision. Let there be light.

It only feels like the world is frozen when he takes in the approaching attack. In reality, he knows his reaction to that follows within less than the blink of an eye. He assesses that it would take too long to reach for his _gladius_ , so instead he raises his arm to block as much of the blow as he can before he's crushed into the ground. 

A fall. Aaron always knew, but this is not it, not yet, his mind snaps into combat mode as his back hits the sandy ground of the inner courtyard with a thud. His lungs expel all of their air and above him, Il Rosso gets ready to land his club a second time. 

It's no doubt meant to faze Aaron out long enough for the Roman fighter to be able to switch over to his sword, the sharp weapon more effective against a foe even partly incapacitated. The Hebrew doesn't wait for it, rolling over to the side and right onto the still throbbing arm he had used as a shield a second ago. He hears an agonized growl and knows it's coming from him. He's lucky Il Rosso's club fails to connect and the Israelite hears it being dropped right behind him in favor of a _gladius_. 

Aaron needs to get to his feet, to draw his own sword out, but if he does that, the Latin will get to the Hebrew first, surely already taking aim at his back. His dagger is stuffed in the straps of his shoe, handy for the one move the Judean hopes Il Rosso won't realize is coming. Keeping his hand as close to his body as he can, he pulls the _pugio_ out with a minimalistic motion while turning around, ducking his head low to avoid the sword looking to cut through him and aiming for the Latin's ankle, to slice through the tender tissue there. 

He misses. 

He didn't calculate correctly where Il Rosso would be standing, though at least the same is true for the Roman's sword. Aaron's also closer to his opponent's feet, which is why, when the Latin tries to continue and take another stab at wounding him, the other fighter's footing and grasp on his _gladius_ are a little less stable for having to search his target so near to himself. 

Aaron launches himself at Il Rosso's calves, one hand searching for the flesh with the dagger's blade, the other trying to grab at the Roman and pull him down in case the _pugio_ doesn't strike it's target again. It does. The Judean's grip also fulfills its goal, and both men are sent hurtling down, but he's not the only one successful. The Latin's blade strikes at the Hebrew fighter from behind, digging a line from just below his shoulder to the back of his unwounded arm. He's grateful that it's at the wrong angle to pierce too deeply and it does not slice the aching arm he used earlier to protect him from the club, but the fresh cut intersects with the recent scars left on his biceps. The cry of pain it rips out of him reminds Aaron of the tiger he had defeated in the arena. Hurt and roaring. Losing its mind and subsequently, its effectiveness. That would be so odd, if this were to become his lot precisely when he was on the brink of being liberated from this bloody life of gladiatorial enslavement. 

He suspects there might be a tear of physical anguish prickling at his eye, but he ignores it, having ended up in a position where he's lying on top of the Roman. The surprise of the assault from below gives Aaron a much needed gap before Il Rosso can use his sword again and the Israelite exploits it to grab at the sword with both hands. The instinct of fighters in this situation is to try and pull the weapon out of their opponent's hands, playing precisely into the grip their foe still has on the handle. The Hebrew instead shoves it back at Il Rosso with all his strength, loosening that hold. It works to a certain degree, the Roman isn't gripping it as tightly anymore, but it's not enough to get the sword away from the Latin man. 

Worse, with the Judean focusing on his attempt to pry the _gladius_ away from his foe, Il Rosso manages to free one of his legs from the body weighing him down and proceeds to kick the two gladiators apart, rolling away from underneath his Hebrew opponent in one direction, while the Israelite fighter is shoved by him in the other. Aaron's not pleased, but as they both stagger to their feet, it gives him the chance to pull out his own sword. They've both taken a hit, him probably more than the Latin, the upper parts of his arms have never been this sore during a fight, but standing at a distance from each other with equal weapons drawn in hand, this is more balanced and to his liking than the surprise assault he's just managed to get through. 

They circle each other, evaluating the enemy, looking for a weakness or an opening. The crowds would go wild for this, their ghost screams haunt the courtyard in Aaron's mind. There's always a hesitation built into this stage of a fight, is it the right thing to make the first move? It could be an advantage, taking control of the timing and direction the combat will take, especially if one is not wrong regarding the weak spot they believe they've spotted in their opponent. It could also be a colossal mistake if the initiator miscalculated their move or their adversary's vulnerability. It could be so crucial that from that point on, they're a dead man, unwittingly fighting when their fate had already been decided. 

Aaron weighs the options. He's not spotting any clear weaknesses to move in on and Il Rosso is a veteran of the arena who leaves little space for an opening a foe can use. Then again, it's precisely this experience he has that makes the Hebrew reluctant to leave the initiative to the Roman. Without a clear target to attack or take advantage of, the Judean decides to stage one of his own. It can't be too obvious or the Roman won't take the bait. If it's fully fake, the other gladiator will pick up on it, so Aaron goes for what's real, the building ache in his arms. He lets himself feel it rather than push it out of the way, allows his shoulders to slouch slightly with the weight of the pain. It's a risk, removing this chink from his mental armor, one he hopes he won't end up paying dearly for. The movement in his upper body is nothing major, but it's all the Latin needs and he charges in. 

Anticipating Il Rosso's attack, Aaron moves quicker than the Roman probably anticipated him to, raising his _gladius_ to meet the sword flying at him. All of his opponent's strength is invested in this and it's harder to block than he would have liked. A strange sensation spreads over his forehead. Cold sweat against his heated skin, colder than it would otherwise be, breaking out not only because of effort, further cooled not just due to the chilly night. This is fear. It makes him feel sick to his stomach and doubtful he can fight, let alone win. 

Il Rosso sniffs it out, of course he does. Swords pushing against each other in a clash of physical prowess and strength of will, they're so close that Aaron can see the Roman's mouth, already distorted by effort, further twist at the corner into a satisfied nasty grin. He doesn't bite out verbally at his foe, is too smart to waste breath on degrading insults, but they're all easily readable from the gloating and contemptuous sneer openly displayed across his face. 'Jewish vermin', it proclaims, 'filthy maggot, unworthy of living. Piece of despicable shit destined to lose in a fight with a true man of Rome... **die** '. The pain in the Hebrew fighter's arms intensifying suggests the Latin might be right. Fatigue is starting to set in and the terror he was never meant to escape. He's been so close to having his freedom from the _ludus_ twice now. Perhaps there's a message in this he should have accepted already. 

But he can't. He considers why Il Rosso has hated him since the first instant they met, for being a Jew. He takes into account why the other gladiator's hatred has violently burst out now, for discovering Aaron was intimate with another man in ways that defied Roman social norms. It floods him with images of friends he had grown up with, of his mother and the sister he still has to reach... of Robert. There is light in those images. The reasons Il Rosso hates him are equally applicable to all the people he loves and accepting defeat means agreeing they all deserve such disdain and violence. Aaron's very insides rebel at the idea. 

It tears a guttural scream out of him, starting low and rising in volume, filling out, making the sneer on the Roman fighter's face drop abruptly. The Judean gladiator manages to push back the other fighter's sword and follow it with a quick attack, a series of strikes he lands with increasing force on his adversary in such quick succession, taking a step forward with each one, that the Latin can barely keep up with it. Aaron is ferocious in his pursuit and he succeeds in cutting the Roman with several of his sword lunges. 

Il Rosso's retreating strides lack his usual confidence and it's not long before, under this unrelenting offensive, he stumbles a little. Taking advantage of that, the Israelite surges ahead, right foot kicking forward at the same time that he thrusts his _gladius_ , cutting through flesh, forcing his foe's _gladius_ to be dropped and sending the Roman tumbling down. 

With one smooth motion, Aaron leaps over the gap between them with his sword raised in his hand, landing with his knees pushing up against Il Rosso's chest and his blade at the other fighter's neck. There's no decision there, just the fluidity of motion about to take the Roman's life with a final jab. 

"Aaron!" 

For a second, his name being shouted out doesn't seem real, just a continuation of Robert's visage in his head. 

Then it's followed by rushing footsteps and a solid presence at his side that Aaron can't deny. Noises from a bit further back let him know there's another man there. Frank, he'd guess. 

"Aaron, I know," Robert says, quieter and calmer, "and he deserves it. Especially if going by your people's laws on self defense. But remember what you said? Returning from having been observed to just being one of the observers, that's something you wanted. I think this could be a moment for you to choose to make your way back..." 

The Judean is panting hard, he hadn't even noticed how laboured his breathing has been until he realizes it's partly masking the commander's voice. 

"A man so full of hatred," he lets his objection slither out through gritted teeth, "he's who I choose to spare to start turning things around?" 

Robert sighs. "I won't argue that. Only point out that you have to start somewhere. And other men who'll come under your sword in the future? If they end up there, they won't be any less deserving of death." 

It may not be the first thing to jump at a casual listener, but what gets to Aaron is his lover's faith in his morals and judgment, even while persuading him to spare a man he's reluctant to. 

He slowly lowers his sword. Gets up on his feet again, not without dismay. He wants to say something, assure Il Rosso that this is not the Roman winning, but before the Judean can, he's engulfed in Robert's tight embrace. The Hebrew turns into it, lets his exhaustion and pains sink into the enveloping comfort and melt away. 

He doesn't intend to get too lost in it, but knows he did, that he failed, when all of a sudden and with a strangled, desperate cry, Robert pushes him to the side and the commander is penetrated himself by the sword Il Rosso was directing straight at Aaron's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	17. Chapter 17

It was a fall.

Aaron always knew it would be. He just had no way of surmising that it wouldn't be his, the fall that would rip his heart out of his chest, still beating. 

It happens faster than he can grasp. The blade he sees sinking into Robert's gut and being pulled right out. The blood that floods out. His own hands clutching at his sword, wielding it with desperation, as if the speed with which he'll be able to cut Il Rosso's throat can undo what he had just witnessed. The Roman's mouth goes slack as blood squirts out from the cut. He lets go of his own _gladius_ to grasp at where he'd been slashed, like he can keep the fluid of life from running out of his body. Aaron uses the opportunity, grabs the Latin's own blade and uses both swords simultaneously to disembowel him. 

Watching Il Rosso's lifeless body hit the ground, making sure the Roman will never be a threat to them again, Aaron turns to find Frank, seemingly in a state of shock, but by Robert's side nonetheless. It only then fully enters Aaron's consciousness, the sight of the man he loves, fallen. 

He crouches down next to the unconscious man, with one hand applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding and with the other holding his lover's pale face. 

"The _medicus_..." Aaron instructs the Gaul, while he tears away a part of the commander's cloak to use for the wound. It's the easiest thing to rip for cloth since a large portion of the _paludamentum_ is splayed out on the soil, next to the injured man and not directly underneath him. 

"Yes, of course," the Hebrew hears in response as he uses the red cloth to bandage the wound. He registers Frank's distancing steps and hurriedly calls out after the retreating trainer, "bring him to the main bed chamber!" 

He carefully collects his love into his arms, mindful not to hurt him or move the bandage. He carries Robert back inside and heads for the master bed chamber. He's thankful they'd gone over the over the chamber locations beforehand, in case Laurentius wouldn't be too incapacitated to call for help. 

When Aaron reaches the door to the room, he kicks it in and proceeds to lay Robert down on the luxurious bed. The gladiator's not stopped checking in on the man he was carrying in his arms, measuring his breath, concerned over how shallow it's been. 

"The _medicus_ will be here shortly," he whispers into his love's ear, looking at his face, caressing it, holding his hand gently, "and you better let him help you. I'm not having you die on me, Robert. I'm..." 

Whatever else he wants to say, it gets swallowed up in the tears choking him. He settles for softly kissing Robert's cheek, stroking the back of his hand. 

When Frank shows up with the _medicus_ , Aaron backs away. He breaks off all points of contact, to allow the healer the space he needs to do his job. The last thing the fighter does is to let go of Robert's hand. 

The Gaul drags him out of the room and into the adjacent _lanista_ chamber. On the table is a _rudis_. Aaron turns questioning eyes to Frank, who in return confirms, "That is for you. _Dominus_ is passed out on the couch in the reception hall next door. I told the medic that treating Commander Tiberius was the old man's order, but we can't predict what that man will do once he awakes. He detests the sight of you and will most likely do everything that is within his power to have you executed, in spite of our attempted blackmail. You need to leave here before he may succeed. Take your freedom while you still can and go." 

Aaron raises his head toward the ornamented ceiling, as if there are some answers there. "I know you're right, but I can't. Not yet." 

The Gaul sighs, like this is what he both feared and expected. "I should go take care of Il Rosso's body. When people start waking up, they mustn't find it. In the meantime, I'd advise you stand guard by the reception hall door, to be on the safe side." He's on the verge of saying something more, but decides against it and leaves. 

There are no signs that the old man had awoken by the time the _medicus_ comes in search of anyone concerned over his patient. Aaron steps up to him and informs the healer that Frank was called away, leaving him to tend to the matter. 

"The _praeceptorem_ has regained his consciousness. I must inform you there is no way to tell for how long he'll be able to maintain that, so if there should be any discussion that requires his participation, now is the time." 

Aaron makes his way over to the bed chamber faster than a shot arrow. Robert is there, his head a little raised again the cushions and headboard. He's not quite as pale, but more importantly, his eyes are open. The bandage where he was stabbed has been changed and this one isn't as soaked with blood. 

He faintly turns the corner of his mouth up in a ghost of a smile and it breaks Aaron's heart to witness Robert so weak. He wants to joke, alleviate the mood. Say something rude or inappropriate, so the normalcy of it may keep the wounded man from catching on to the gravity of the situation. But he's unable to do that, not when Aaron can't forget that himself. 

"You killed for me," Robert is the first to speak, and whatever his statement is meant to be, it's not an accusation. 

"Is that a problem?" Aaron's question is sincere wondering. 

"I don't want it to be for you, in terms of your tradition. It wasn't self defense since it wasn't you that Il Rosso was attacking." 

Aaron gets it now and the tension that was building in his shoulders melts, along with this punch to his gut... that this is what's on Robert's mind when he may be at death's doorstep. The Hebrew sits down cautiously on the side of the bed. It's wide enough that he can do so without disturbing much the man lying on it. 

"He was attacking you. It's practically the same." 

He wants to follow it up with some reassuring contact, but can't. It's odd, how Aaron is struck by a sense of being without the permission to freely touch this man, when they've been so liberal with each other's bodies for a while and when just a short hour ago he felt no hesitation regarding anything as he was carrying his love into the room and laying him down in this big, strange bed. It's the reality of their impending separation setting in, he realizes. They're going to say goodbye and Robert will never be his again. He'll be denied everything, forever. 

A feeble caress to Aaron's hand shakes him out of those thoughts, followed by, "I would never ask you to kill for me. You do know that, right?" 

"And I would never ask you to die for me," the words come out of the Hebrew's mouth too shaky, yet his fingers instinctively returning Robert's gesture are steady. "But I would have died for you, too. You know?" 

"I know. I don't want you to die for me, though. I think I understand it better now, why sometimes living can be an act of bravery, too. I want you to live, for me as well as for your sister, no matter what happens. Can you promise me that, Aaron?" 

It's both fond and pained when the Israelite smiles in response around the lump in his throat and nods in the affirmative, giving the answer that Robert needs to get. Asking for permission soundlessly, Aaron closes the distance between them gradually, allowing the other man time to reject this last advance. Not being stopped, he ends up delicately kissing Robert's lips, then his cheek. Whispers at his ear a barely audible, "I love you." Closes his own eyes and soaks in Robert's choked, "I love you, too". Pulls back to lean his forehead against the other man's as lightly as he can. Feels the man he loves pressing back against him. Their hands hold on to each other. They stay like that for what is probably too long, given that anyone could enter at any moment. Then Aaron rises and he's headed for the door. When he reaches it, a second before he exits, he turns to look at the only man who's ever had his heart for the very last time, imprinting this final image of Robert, slouched back down in the bed, eyelids shut, lips slightly parted, into the deepest part of his mind and soul. 

* ~ *

When Aaron finds him in the courtyard, Frank is securing onto a horse the luggage he has prepared for the Hebrew. Clothes, food, water, a rolled up, improvised mattress for the road, money. Everything they had agreed would be needed to put more distance between him and this wretched place than any group of pursuers might be able to cover. 

"Thank you," such a small way of trying to show gratitude for such a huge debt. Aaron's not particularly good at or comfortable about this, so he proceeds by inquiring, "Il Rosso's body?" 

"Taken care of." The _doctor_ 's tone is firm, his way of announcing that in his view, the subject is settled. 

"Well, to be on the safe side, it would probably be wise to have Laurentius help in covering up this disappearance." 

The Gaul trainer's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm not sure those letters and diary we forged will hold much sway over him for long. In fact, I believe you can assume he will send a party to arrest you as early as he can possibly remove our threat. You'll always be hunted down if he has anything to do with it." 

"I'm taking that into account. But you have to verify that the matter of the corpse is done with before he has the chance to figure his way out of this." 

"It will be so, worry not about it. And I implore you, look out for yourself." 

Aaron looks down, feeling unworthy of such care. "I'll do my best." He sticks the _rudis_ he took from the _lanista_ chamber into the saddle and mounts the horse which would now be his. "Frank?" he adds suddenly, "there's a girl in the slaves kitchen. Her name is Alicia. I think she may be lonely and in need of a caring friend." She's not the only one, he presumes. 

Frank looks up at him with surprise, but then nods. "I'll check in on her," he agrees. "You know, that's the first time you've used my name." He next adds in a faux stern voice, "I'm not sure I like it," only to follow it up with a wink at his soon to be former gladiator. 

Aaron smiles at him as the part of him that never felt he quite understood Frank and his motivations settles down. He jabs his heels into the Horse's side, grateful for the days he trained for this as a rebel in Judea, and heads for the gate of the _ludus_ , never to return. 

* ~ *

He rides for days. The instructions Robert had him memorize become a new prayer, one he holds on to and repeats in his head whenever the road stretching ahead of him is too long and isolated for his sanity. It's safer that way, that's true, but the complete lack of human presence for such seemingly endless stretches of time is harder to bear than he would have guessed it would be. The first village he permits himself to stop in, it's just to hear people's voices. He stops at a local tavern to have a drink. Buys the cheapest one he can, gets his fill and leaves before he's finished his beverage. By the second village, he also stops to get water and food for the road and to look after his horse's hoofs. He still opts out of spending the night there. 

It's at the third village that he comes across the gossip. He stops for a quick drink at the tavern before leaving and the place is humming with it. Aaron sits at one of the tables and listens, piecing things together from the different conversations being held around him. A messenger had passed through earlier, carrying news of a Roman commander in charge of finding a murderer who ended up attacked himself, killed by a Roman gladiator. 

The table holds his weight. The chair. Not his own skin. Aaron wants to throw up, but he can't, he doesn't have the strength to. He thinks he's cold or hot, maybe both, he can't tell anything other than there's something very wrong with him. And from here on out, there always will be. 

He flees the crowded, noisy space closing in on him, mounts his horse, gets out of the village and away from the road, as far away from everything as he can get and still not far enough. In the middle of a forest that he reaches, he gets off and does throw up. Bent in half, black ringlets flash in front of his eyes. He tries to stand back up, but can't pull himself together for that. He only puts in enough effort to miss the vomit as he lets go and falls unto the dirt and rolls over, face turned up to heaven, questioning from the depths of the forest floor. He always knew. 

So did Robert. It abruptly hits him, tears him apart from the inside out and there is no way to be unhit. The man he loves must have felt himself slipping away, thought of Aaron instead of anything else and made him promise to live no matter what. Didn't specify - no matter what befalls Robert. 

It's torn out of him violently, his desperate sobs, interspersed by his screams. He bawls at the high heavens above him, impossibly out of his reach. It relieves nothing, only leaves him raw of throat and empty of tears. 

Exhausted, he waits there on the ground, hoping to eventually feel better. 

He waits for a very long time. 

* ~ *

There is a part of him that would have stayed there, on the ground, in a forest, at the middle of nowhere. Weak, tired and uncaring. He would have starved to death there and it would have suited him just fine. Then he wouldn't have to be mad at Robert anymore. For sacrificing himself when he was never asked to. For demanding that promise be made. For dying. Aaron is so angry, but it doesn't take long for it to become clear that he's choosing this because while he's that upset with Robert, he continues arguing with the man in his mind over what should not be done. As if his love is still there to be reasoned with. 

Aaron can practically bodily sense the deepening of the wound. 

At the end, it's his promise to Robert that forces him up. He has no idea how much time has passed, but hunger has set in. It's a weird kind, with no real desire for food, only a necessity to fulfill the requirements of the dumb, uncaring flesh. 

Aaron repeats internally the recitation of his new prayer. The directions he has from Robert, the ones that will lead him to a meeting point with the man who will bring him his sister. A common handmaiden, not a prized slave such as a gladiator, she's not worth a lot on the Roman market. An army commander being interested in buying her for ten times her worth is not an opportunity that can be easily turned down. It wasn't an immediate deal, there was some reluctance, but using his friend and offering an incredibly generous sum of money, Robert succeeded in bringing her owner to agree to a sale. Sent to his friend with a trusted messenger, he had paid a part of the cost in advance and Aaron is now carrying the rest of it, hoping nothing will go wrong. Once he's reunited with her, he will get both of them away from under the reach of the Roman Empire. 

Truth be told, his responsibility for his sister would have kept Aaron going even if it wasn't for the promise he was made to swear. It does make it easier though. Frees him of guilt. Only he doesn't want it easy. It might be messed up, but he wants the weight of Robert's memory. A reminder of all they had shared and of what might have been. 

It takes two days of riding before he ends up feeling grateful for that promise after all. He arrives at a tree covered cliff overlooking a small town and decides to spend the night there. Dismounting his horse, he starts his few preparations for the night. When he's done, the view catches his attention. It's a breathtaking sunset, wild in its fiery colors, awe inspiring in the wide expanse of skies it sprawls over. He hasn't been free to witness anything like it in years. It's beautiful and sorrow tainted. They could have been watching it together. But Robert's words press on in Aaron's mind and it dawns on him... 'Live for me'. That's not just a physical directive. The man he loved wanted him to enjoy the beauty of life, too. He can appreciate the sunset, safe in the clarity that Robert would have wanted him to, a final gift of love. It stings his eyes and widens his heart. 

* ~ *

The forest clearing Aaron is to meet his sister in is a small one, not too far from the town where she was kept as a slave. He arrived earlier than they anticipated it would take him when Robert was setting everything up, leaving the Israelite a few days to lay low in the area. He was tempted to try and see his sister, but knew better than to go ahead with that idea. It could throw everything they had planned into chaos. Those additional days still turned out to come in handy as he got to form an impression of how the locals viewed the Roman who laid claim to his younger sister. What the fighter wanted to know most of all was whether greedy would come up as a description. A man like that might decide to lay a trap for his buyer, with the intention of gaining the money promised to him without relinquishing the girl he saw as property. The town folk Aaron talked to or, more often, eavesdropped on, gave no indication that this might be a realistic possibility. He's thankful to learn that, though he still arrives at the clearing ahead of time, to scout out the location in advance and be confident that it is indeed empty of ambush. The business transaction itself was by no means illegal under Roman law, but Robert had all the same chosen to set it up away from any centers of population. It's the logical thing to do, given the Hebrew gladiator's escape, yet it might have been a temptation for a local seller to take advantage of when meeting a stranger there. 

Once Aaron's finished checking the location is clear, it leaves him ample opportunity to dwell on things he probably shouldn't. It makes no sense to indulge in imagining Robert with his sister, what they would have made of each other, how they would have gotten along. Even if it wasn't for the murder of his love, they would not have met. Aaron can't help himself, though. The picture of the two people he loved most in the world possibly coming to like each other as well is too bright and vivid in his head, it both fills up and stabs at his chest. 

He's almost completely lost in it, but not so gone that he doesn't pick up on the rustle of leaves behind him. 

Blade drawn out right away, he turns in the direction of the sound. 

And freezes. 

It can't be, he's going crazy with grief. 

Robert's smile is cheeky and vibrant, too full of life to be denied. "We have to stop meeting in places like this," he says. 

He's not wearing a commander's uniform. He's not wearing an army attire at all, his clothes are those of a plain Roman citizen. His arm is encircling his middle, a hint of the wound that lies beneath. That makes it real like lightning striking out of the clouds. If Aaron were hallucinating, he would have had Robert fully healed in his mirage. 

Aaron moves before he decides to, is running toward the other man, grabs at him tighter than he probably should have, hugs every single thing he's been through, every ounce of pain and love into the very bones of the man he loves, alive and safely engulfed in his arms. 

Robert's laughter is short of breath and warm against Aaron's ear, but there's an underlying discomfort the Judean notices and he lets go immediately, without letting go of the man's arms, refusing to give up touching him again. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yes, I'm better than that really, now I've found you. I was petrified I wouldn't get here on time. I only just arrived this morning and I couldn't find you anywhere around town." 

"Robert... I don't understand any of this. They said you were dead?" 

"Because that's what we needed everyone to believe. Frank concocted a plan to use Il Rosso's body rather than dispose of it. He had it draped in some of my clothes and partly burned it, making sure the face would be unrecognizable. He staged the scene to reflect an attack that resulted in murder and then we told Laurentius he'd be a part of the cover up. It would be his role to convince everyone that Il Rosso was the killer I was hunting down and that when I was closing in on him, he decided to attack first. The story was, he succeeded in killing me and fleeing himself. The old fart wasn't happy to cooperate, but I made it clear to him that I'd only ever stop being a threat to him once I was considered dead myself. After I recovered enough to ride, I left the place in disguise and under cover of night. I had to get here in time..." 

Aaron listens, but he only half follows what's being said. Mostly, he lets the stream of sentences build up as proof, because he's going to need a lot more reassurance before it can fully sink in. That this is not a dream. That he has Robert where the man belongs, in his arms. 

No, it strikes Aaron. No, this means Robert has given up everything and that's too much to ask for, it's not right. 

"You can't," he interrupts, "you can't give up all you had for me. For this, a life with me. If it will even be that? The meeting that's about to take place here... I have no guarantee that it will end well and who knows what might happen before it's over. Even if nothing goes wrong, I'll have a younger sister to take care of. And I'll have to do it on the run. I'll look for a safe place for us, but we may never find one. You haven't thought this through, but it's alright. You can go back. You can have Laurentius clear up that... that I was Il Rosso's accomplice, that the body was misidentified, he was the one killed when he attacked you and that you only left there to give chase to me. You can still have your life." 

It would be alright for Aaron, as well. Robert isn't dead. He got to see him once more. That could be more than enough. 

"You really don't listen, do you? I already told you, life without you is not worth living. I was always going to force Laurentius' hand to get me out of the army, one way or another. Il Rosso just provided me with the perfect cover story. And if I had been too late for this meeting? I would have spent the rest of my life tracking you down. Not even the gods could have stopped me. The only thing that would ever keep me from you is if you told me you didn't want me anymore..." Robert stops, doubt due to the reaction he got evidently creeping in. "Will you, then? Will you still have me?" 

Aaron lets his gaze drop. He should do the right thing here. And everything he's ever been is telling him what that is. He intertwines their fingers. The tops of the trees above them close in like the roof of a temple. There are rays of soft light pouring in between. They've been leaning in as well, hovering about the union of their hands. 

"Well," Aaron looks up and smiles brightly, "who am I to stop what not even your gods would dare to?" 

They'll have to part shortly. The seller is probably close by already. But not yet. They can hold on just a beat longer and Aaron lets it spread throughout him, what Robert is teaching him with their love. That after the fall, they can rise again, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last note: the title of this fic refers to some of the symbolic elements that keep getting referenced throughout the fic, but also to David mourning the death of his love Jonathan in that epic way of his, _‘how have the mighty fallen'_.  <3 David and Jonathan's story ends in tragedy, but I wanted this fic to end with a note more comparable to E.M. Forster's _Maurice_ , one of the first novels ever to give a same sex male couple a happy ending of sorts. Living outside of society's norms and laws, always on the run, and yet getting to have their love and, even putting aside the aspect of same sex desire, possessing more freedom than most people living in those oppressive times.
> 
> That's it, the end of the longest fic I'd ever written. Thank you for reading and I do hope you enjoyed it!


	18. Latin dictionary

**Latin-English dictionary for the terms used in this fic**

Actarius - military clerk  
Amphitheatrum - open air circular or oval building designed for public shows  
Bestiarii - animal handlers in the arena  
Castra - soldiers encampment  
Cavea - seating parts of the amphitheatre  
Ceveo - sex where a man lets another man penetrate him  
Concubinus - male concubine, a bedmate with semi-recognized status as a cherished slave  
Contubernium - the basic unit making up the Roman army  
Cuirass - the breastplate and backplate of a Roman soldier's armor  
Damnatio ad bestias - condemnation to the beasts  
Doctor - trainer  
Doctores - trainers  
Doctor retiariorum - trainer of net fighters  
Dominus - master  
Exercitus - army  
Familia gladiatorium - a troop of gladiators living and training under the same lanista  
Focale - scarf worn under the metal armor to protect the neck from it  
Fugitivus - fugitive  
Fustuarium - clubbing to death  
Futuo - fuck  
Gladiator - fighter, literally: swordsman  
Gladius - sword  
Hasta - relatively shorter spear, meant for thrusting  
Hyacinthum - blue  
Lanista - owner of gladiators  
Legionari - legionaries, Roman infantry soldiers  
Legionarius - legionary, Roman infantry soldier  
Liberatio - the freeing of a gladiator  
Lucerna - candle, oil lamp  
Ludi - gladiatorial training schools  
Ludus - gladiatorial training school  
Manica - arm guard  
Medicus - doctor, healer  
Munerarius - giver of a gladiatorial exhibition  
Munus - three or more days of gladiatorial fights  
Paludamentum - commander's cloak  
Palus - wooden post  
Pompa - parade held at the start of a munus  
Porta Triumphalis - victors' gate out of the arena  
Praeceptorem - commander  
Pugio - dagger  
Retiarius tunicatus - net fighter using a battle style considered effeminate  
Rudis - wooden sword symbolizing that a gladiator has been granted his freedom  
Spectaculum - one gladiatorial show  
Spectatus - observed  
Spoliarium - room reserved for the defeated  
Stuprum - illicit sexual act  
Subligaculum - loincloth  
Tegimen - body armor  
Tunica - woolen, short sleeved garment, soldiers wore it under the armor  
Venatio - animal gladiatorial battle  
Venator - a gladiator skilled with a spear specifically to fight animals in the arena  
Vestis - outfit


End file.
